Chapter 14
“Do you think it’s the behavioral analyst?” I ask. “I didn’t realize he was talking to someone in the area.”
“There’s an FBI office in Albany, so it could be a profiler from there,” Logan says. “Or maybe someone higher up in the state police just wants to meet with us and throw in their two cents.”
“He didn’t drop any hints?”
“Nope. Before I could press, he said he had to take another call.”
“Do you—” I start to ask him to make a guess, to speculate, but catch myself.
Speculating is one of the things that nearly undid me during the original investigation—the constant, exhaustive wondering, feeling certain of something at one moment but not the next. It became addictive back then, and I can’t let myself get caught up in that again.
“What?” Logan asks.
“Nothing. See you at twelve fifteen.”
As I turn to leave, I hear Logan shift in the chair, and instinctively I glance back. He’s staring at me again, but now with a wistful expression.
“You really didn’t remember drinking brandy with me at that little bistro?” he says.
I hesitate briefly, considering how to respond.
“Not at first, but, as I said, I sort of do now.”
“Only sort of?”
I shrug, feeling a prick of irritation. “To be honest, Logan, those kinds of experiences are never fresh in my mind.”
“Because?”
God, does he really want me to answer that? My first instinct is to simply blame my memory lapse on exhaustion, but I’m still bristling enough from Lisa’s comments at dinner that I override my better instincts.
“Because once I start with a thought like that, I’m suddenly white-water rafting forward in time, landing somewhere I never imagined or wanted to be.
You and me over. Divorced. Living on separate continents.
So why go trolling through memories that will only take me someplace heart-wrenching in the end? ”
He glances off briefly, clearly mulling over my response, and then looks back at me, his eyes nearly boring into mine.
“I didn’t end it, Bree,” he says bluntly. “You did. I asked for forgiveness and the chance to start again.”
I glance behind me, double-checking that there’s still no one in the lobby who could overhear.
“Forgiveness wasn’t the issue, Logan. I did forgive you. You found your own way to deal with the pain. But your personal grief-relief strategy didn’t just leave me lower than I thought I could go, it meant I could never trust you again, so how was I—”
Quit while you’re ahead, I think, and then scoff at myself because this isn’t some game I want to win at.
“There’s really nothing more to add,” I continue. “We’ve been over this ground before. Good night.”
“Night.”
As soon as I’m in my room, I regret how harsh I sounded.
Before I left Uruguay, I’d assured myself that my instinct to punish Logan had long been quelled—inviting him to stay at the chacra was proof of that, after all—and that I’d be able to stunt any resentment that reared its head this week.
Well, I’ve been here only a day and a half and already failed at that.
Logan, on the other hand, has been nothing but gracious and solicitous with me.
I’m fifty-three years old, and it’s time to stop acting like a Taylor Swift song.
Assuming he’s still in the parlor and not in bed with Lisa yet, I grab my phone and text him.
I’m sorry about laying on the guilt that way. I appreciate everything you’re doing.
Three little dots pulse for a minute, then disappear, like someone slipping out of a room without warning. But a minute later the reply comes.
Thanks. I know how hard this must be for you. See you tomorrow.
Chances are he wasn’t troubled by my comments anyway. He seems to be taking me in stride this week, letting my irritation and anger roll off his back. If the past is, in the words of the author L. P. Hartley, “a foreign country,” I’ve become that both literally and figuratively for Logan.
Against my will, I picture him in my mind, taking the last swallow of brandy and preparing to head upstairs to his room.
Perhaps he’s eager for some makeup sex with Lisa.
Logan was great at makeup sex—any kind of sex, for that matter—his people skills extending perfectly into the bedroom.
He derived pleasure not only from satisfying his own coital needs but also making sure my hair was standing on end by the time we rolled onto our backs.
With Bas, I never sense his ego in bed with us, just his passion and generosity.
Though I’m even more desperate now for a bath, I’m too exhausted to bother. I drain the tub, quickly get ready for bed, and slip under the soft white duvet. I’m out within minutes.
By eight thirty the next morning, I’m on my way to campus again, this time to pick up the copies of The Muse that Handler put aside for me at the library. It’s something to do at least.
I try to let the walk relax me. It’s breezy today but a little warmer than yesterday, and the sun keeps threatening to burn through the film of pale-gray clouds.
And yet for a reason I can’t define, I notice a brand-new hum of anxiety inside me, like the churr of an insect.
Maybe it’s due to the meeting ahead with Halligan and the mystery guest he refused to identify.
By the time I near the library, it’s nine o’clock, and I place a call to Maya’s office. I’m not expecting to reach her directly, but I want to leave a message with her assistant, thanking her again for last night. To my surprise, I’m put through as soon as I identify myself.
“Bree, good morning,” she says warmly.
“Maya, hi. I won’t keep you, but I just wanted to say how much I appreciate the dinner you gave last night.”
“It was my pleasure. And you had a chance to speak with Chip, I know. He tells me he’s expecting some nice pickup about the scholarships.”
“That’s terrific . . . And, oh, speaking of Chip, he mentioned that a reporter had called about Mel’s case, asking if it might be reopened.
Confidentially, the police are reviewing certain details again, but for the time being, Logan and I need to keep this development under wraps. I hope you understand.”
“Of course. If there are details relevant to what we do in terms of campus security, we’d want to be informed, but how much you tell us otherwise is up to you.”
“Chip seemed to think it was important for the college to be in the loop.”
“He was probably just being extra diligent. And, of course, the situation resonates for him personally.”
“What do you mean?” I say, confused.
“He was a student at the same time as Melanie, in the English department, too. And I believe he also worked on The Muse when she was editor.”
Chip said he’d gone to Carter but never what year. On the one hand, it’s odd he didn’t mention being familiar with Mel, but by now I’m used to people tiptoeing around the topic, reluctant to even mention her name.
We end the call just as I reach the library, with me telling Maya I’ll see her tomorrow night.
Once I’m inside the building, I approach a twentysomething redheaded woman at the front desk and explain my purpose there.
She smiles pleasantly and, after rifling under the counter, hands me a small shopping bag with the Carter College logo.
Back outside, I quickly check through the bag.
There are four old issues of The Muse, each of which I already have.
Still, it’s nice to now own extra copies.
Handler has also promised to check through his files at home, and if I’m lucky, he’ll find some work of Mel’s I’ve never laid eyes on.
I start to retrace my steps across the quad.
Students are dashing, clustering, chatting together, half of them in Carter College hoodies.
I don’t think Mel ever owned one of those.
She might have loved her time here, but she wasn’t a rah-rah kind of girl and rarely dressed like other kids I remember seeing.
Instead of jeans and hoodies, she favored flowy pants and skirts (all still without buttons if possible), paired with black T-shirts and chunky boots.
I’m halfway to the other side of the quad when I jerk to a stop.
To my shock, Jack Lawler is sitting on a cement bench just yards ahead of me.
The shaggy hair is gone—he’s now sporting a crew cut with a bit longer growth on top that he’s obviously spiked with product—but I recognize the face and the lanky frame.
His long legs are spread out in front of him, and he’s talking with an older man in a quilted vest, probably a professor.
I quickly pivot, hurry toward a maple tree near the center of the quad, and then duck behind it. I lean my head out just enough to have a view.
The two men are speaking animatedly, and I watch Jack flash a smile and nod in agreement. At a glance, he looks less broody, more outgoing than he used to be, and even less like the kind of guy who could have flown into a murderous rage over being dumped.
But who knows? He lied about the breakup after all, and that might have been less out of embarrassment than a need for no one to guess how furious he was.
Jack, more than anyone, would have been aware of Mel’s rituals, how she liked to walk to the park in the evening and sit quietly by the creek, away from the commotion on campus.
Maybe he showed up there that Friday night in the hope of convincing her to be a couple again, and when she rebuffed him, he lost control.
He could have hurried back to campus, making sure to show his face.
But then where would he have gotten his hands on a dog leash so quickly? If he is the killer, he must have intended right from the start to murder her and make it look like an attempted rape.