“When?On this trip?”
He shakes his head. “When Mel was here.”
“Was it because of something she said?”
If so, why hasn’t Logan ever told me?
“No, nothing she said. It was a few weeks before she died, that Friday I was in the Albany area for work and I drove over to see her. We had an early dinner in town here and ran into Handler afterward while we were walking to the car. As you know, she’d always raved about him, but the conversation was oddly stilted, like there was something hanging in the air.”
“And you thoughtaffair?”
“Yes, but not for more than a millisecond. I told myself that, Mel being Mel, she probably felt a little awkward running into him with a parent—and so it never seemed worth bringing up.”
In some ways I’ve made the same decision myself over the past days, not wanting to turn a molehill into a mountain about Handler. And what could I have done with the information if Loganhadtold me? Certainly not raise it with Mel, because she would have said, as she had more than once, that her love life was none of my damn business.
“In hindsight, though, do you think it’s a possibility?”
Logan takes another long drink of wine, nearly tipping the glass upside down to drain the contents, then slowly shakes his head. “Frankly, it’s hard to imagine, and that’s another reason I dropped the idea so fast. Yeah, Mel always went for creative types—just look at Jack—but Handler seems like a guy with a stick up his ass.”
I stare off into the middle distance, considering his comment.
“Still, he’s an attractive man in his own way and a successful poet, with plenty of allure on that front,” I say. “Of course, if they had a fling, he would have been terrified about anyone finding out.”
“Exactly. Don’t you lose tenure over things like that?”
“Absolutely.”
Logan pulls back, suddenly sensing where I’m really going with this. “Whoa, you’re not suggesting Handler killed Mel, are you?”
I stare back at him, saying nothing.
“Bree,Ruckkilled Melanie,” he says. “You’ve got to let go of your doubts and stop torturing yourself.”
“I know, I know, you’re right,” I say. Because heis.
“Regardless, I’m going to do what I can to find out how you got locked in that room.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
I bite half-heartedly into another piece of shrimp. I’m famished, but at the same time I still can’t summon any interest in food.
“I haven’t even asked you about the event,” I say. “Are you happy with how it went?”
“Very. Maya spoke, followed by Eileen Zhao—the head of donor relations—and then I gave my little talk. I choked up once but otherwise kept it together.”
“I’m so sorry not to have heard it. Can you email me a copy of your remarks?”
“Sure thing.”
He reaches for the bottle of wine, ready to pour us each another glass, and I hear a warning siren go off in my head. It’s felt good to have someone here for a while, but we need to wrap this up.
“Do you want to take that back to your room?” I say, lifting my chin toward the bottle. I slowly rise from the table. “I should probably get to bed soon.”
“Uh, yeah, of course,” he says. He rises, too, and starts to tidy up the table.
“Leave that, I’ll get it in the morning,” I urge.
Ignoring me, he stuffs a few more things into one of the plastic bags.
