Mom was talking with Annika, sounding remarkably coherent and involved, seeming more invested now that she was headed away from the bakery, when Chris Emory called.
This one I did want. I had no sooner picked up when he began speaking. His voice was muffled, like he was hiding the call from Grace. “Something’s happening,” he said. “Mom’s on a tear. She just got home from work and started pulling clothes out of drawers and making piles, like we’re going somewhere, like we have to be gone in five minutes. Have you talked with her?”
“No. She isn’t picking up. Is she there now?”
“Yeah, but—”
“Put her on.”
“She’ll be mad I called you.”
“Put her on, Chris,” I said, catching Edward’s eye as I said the boy’s name. He shot me a questioning look, but all I could do was shake my head.
When Grace came on, tension was thick in her voice. “I don’t know why Chris called you. I’m just cleaning.”
“Frantically?” I asked, because I could picture her going at it with her layered hair flying and her who-knew-what-color-today eyes as tense as her voice.
“So I have extra energy.”
“Nervous energy?”
“Wouldn’t you be nervous if your son had done something so bad he was facing jail?” She spoke the last word louder, clearly using it to punish Chris for calling me.
“That won’t happen, Grace, but if it’s making you nervous, you should have called. Talking helps.”
“You’re with your mother,” she said with an odd accusation, like my having a mother when she didn’t suddenly put me out of reach.
So much to say on that score, none of which I could say with the woman in question listening. I didn’t even want to tell Grace that my mother was returning with us.
I simply said, “We’re heading back to Devon. We’ll be there in a couple of hours. Can I see you later?”
After a lengthy silence, came a quiet, “You don’t want to be involved in this, Maggie.”
“Involved in what?” I asked, because as far as I knew, I already was involved with Chris and his mess, but the way she said those words meant there was more.
I heard footsteps, then a coarse whisper. “Phone calls. From where I used to live.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know!” she cried before resuming her whisper. “Someone must have seenPeopleand recognized me. I’m not picking up. I’m not stupid. Nothing good, absolutelynothinggood can come of it, so I can’t answer, but I can imagine, omigod, can I imagine. He’s after me.”
“Your ex?”
“Or someone he knows. It’s not his number, but the area code is the same.”
I remembered the code I’d seen twice now, and, feeling a twinge, wondered if there was a connection. “Washington, DC?”
“No.” She paused, then whispered, “505. Santa Fe.”
“New Mexico?” I asked in surprise. I don’t know why, but I had always imagined her having come from somewhere north.
“Oh, yeah. I don’t know what the hell to do, Maggie.”
“Have you called Jay?”
“What can Jay do?”
“Tell the police you’re being harassed.”
