Chapter 18
The waitress drifts over, smiling pleasantly.
“You all set, hon?” she asks.
I glance at my watch. I’ve still got a little time left on the clock with Craig.
“Actually, I’d love a cup of tea,” I say.
Once she saunters off, I return to my disquiet, trying to make sense of it.
Maybe doubting Riley gave me something to focus on besides the ghastly details she shared, and now that I’ve got good reason to accept her story, those awful images are fighting their way back into my head.
And they’re taunting me about Mel, telling me, “See, this is the living hell your daughter was forced to endure as well.”
But there’s something else at work now, too, and I’m pretty sure its name is Jeffrey Handler.
Morgan clearly disliked the man, and since she hasn’t let go of that sentiment with time, the issue was probably bigger than him being gruff or demanding as a boss. Maybe he failed to credit her for the research she did, a “crime” that plenty of academics apparently have been guilty of.
Or maybe the answer is hiding right there in the snide comment she made: “Well, students were in total awe of him.” It’s possible Morgan sensed something inappropriate between Handler and one of the students, a variation of the scene I saw yesterday. He might have even come on to her.
And then there’s her revelation about the archive for creative work. Why wouldn’t Handler at least have mentioned it to me? It could almost make me think he doesn’t want me to see Mel’s writing.
Somehow, I need to learn more about Handler and his relationship with Mel.
The waitress sets the tea down in front of me, and as she does, I think instantly of Bas, who’s probably having a cup of maté at the kitchen table. I realize I promised to update him after the meeting with Halligan, so I quickly make the call.
This time, I decide, I’m going to share more and better loop him in to what’s happening here. Luckily, the nearest diners are three booths away.
“Sorry I didn’t call earlier,” I tell him, “but things have been crazy since the meeting.”
“So, how did it go? I’ve been on pins and needles.” His voice sounds huskier than normal, and I wonder if he was dozing when I called.
“It was a total shock,” I say. “Turns out, there’s a victim we never knew about.”
“I thought there were two?”
“What?” I ask, confused.
“I thought there were two new victims: one in Ohio and one in another state . . . Pennsylvania.”
“Right, but this is someone else entirely, a survivor who we met today. She says she was attacked by Ruck the same week as Melanie, very close to Pebble Creek Park. Which gives us a reason to think what he told his lawyer about Mel really was a lie.”
“Pebble Creek Park is . . . ?”
“The name of the park Mel was murdered in.”
“Right, of course. My God, this is a shock.”
“I know. And it’s all happening so fast.”
“Which way are you leaning now, about Ruck?”
I want to describe the meetings with Riley and Morgan and share some of the odd qualms I’ve had—still sort of have—but a party of two has entered the diner and is making a beeline in this direction, perhaps headed for the next booth.
“Let me tell you more when I’m not out in public, okay?”
“Of course. But are you all right, Bree? This must be so stressful.”
“Yeah, I’m just hoping that the detective makes some kind of ruling soon and I can definitely head back by the end of the week.”
“Have you been able to avoid Lisa at least?”
“Ah—yes, fortunately,” I say with a twinge of guilt. But I don’t want to worry him unnecessarily.
“Good. Please take care, okay?”
“Same here, sweetheart . . . Wait, do you have a cold, Bas?”
“I seem to be coming down with something, but I hope if I go to bed early tonight, I can shake it.”
“I wish I could be tucking you in.”
“Same here. Love you, carino.”
“Love you, too.”
The call ends, leaving me weirdly deflated—and feeling disconnected from Bas, and not simply because of the distance in miles.
Though I was determined to share more with him, those old reservations clearly flared up again, helping me light on a new reason to hold back.
It makes sense that I can talk about all this with Logan—Melanie was his daughter, too—but I have to find a way to address it with Bas as well.
The taxi trip back to Cartersville seems to take longer than the one here, and I grow twitchier with each mile. I try Logan once more, but I still get only voicemail.
“Slight change of plans, Craig,” I announce as we reach the outskirts of town. “Can you drop me at Oak and Birch Streets instead of the inn?”
While we’ve been traveling, I’ve decided to get a look at Handler’s home, maybe even grab a glimpse of the legendary backyard. I can’t imagine it will unlock any mysteries, but it’s a place to start.
“Got a house number?” he asks.
“No, just the corner is fine.”
As soon as he pulls up, he leans across the seat and cranes his neck to see out the passenger window.
“You sure this is where you want to get out?” he asks. The nearest house is yards away.
“Yeah, this is it.”
Which isn’t exactly true, of course. There’s just no way I’m popping out of a cab directly in front of the Handlers’ house.
I pay the fare along with a generous tip. After exiting the car, I walk toward the nearest house to determine how close I am to the Handlers’. The numeral “2” is on a porch column, which means I have just a few blocks to go. I tighten the belt on my coat and start walking.
Only a few minutes later, I’m standing across the street from number 57, an attractive white center-hall Colonial. On the same lot, also of white clapboard, is a much smaller one-story structure. Though I can’t see a number, I assume it’s 57b, Alison’s studio.
Except for a fixture burning above the stoop, the main house is dark, but light streams from the studio windows. Alison must be at work inside. And Handler? Chances are he’s still on campus, attending one of the many evening events that probably demand his presence.
For a minute I simply stare at the two buildings. There’s no view into the backyard from here, but it’s easy to imagine students back there years ago, lolling on the grass and soaking up Handler’s words.
I also try to picture Handler and Alison at home here.
At the dinner on Tuesday night, they’d seemed fairly in sync, but if his relationship with her began as an extramarital affair, it must have crossed her mind since then that his head could be turned again, and that might be a source of tension.
Maybe her unnerving painting of the horse at the kitchen table and a plate piled with wax lips hints at what their evenings at home are really like.
I tell myself that it’s time to go, that I’ve seen what I wanted to.
But I don’t leave. Instead, before I even know what I’m doing, I dart across the street to the sidewalk in front of the studio.
The building is set farther back on the lot than the house, tucked among fir trees, but there’s a narrow flagstone path leading to the door.
I check behind me, find no one there, and though I know I’m being stupid, I turn back around and start slowly down the path.
Despite the light seeping from the studio windows, it’s dark back here, not something I relish. Still, I keep going, oddly curious. Once I get closer to the building, I push up onto the balls of my feet so I’m practically tiptoeing.
Nearing the front door, I pause and listen. I’m close enough that if Alison is working in there, I should be able to hear her moving or speaking on the phone. But there’s suddenly wind in the fir trees, swishing the branches, and that’s the only sound I hear.
I step off the path and move toward one of the windows. This is insane, I think, but that doesn’t stop me from peering cautiously inside.
The studio turns out to be an open space with several large paintings hanging on a far wall and others leaning against it. There’s a big easel in the middle of the room, as well as an array of rolling carts overflowing with art supplies.
Though several lamps are on, Alison doesn’t seem to be around. Unless the door in the back wall leads to another room in the studio and she’s working in there.
I step even closer to the window. From where I’m standing, some of the paintings aren’t much more than a blur of color—blues, greens, and yellows, punctuated in places with black—but I have a good view of one directly across the room from me, resting on the floor.
It features a pretty, long-haired woman in a white dress, floating Chagall-like in midair.
Beautiful, I think, and then shudder as I register more details.
The straw basket in the woman’s hand is overflowing with fat brown mice, some of which are scurrying down her legs.
Another “dream,” I suppose. The deeply unsettling kind that still gnaws at you as you brush your teeth.
“Can I help you?”
I nearly leap out of my skin. I spin around to find Jeffrey Handler just a short distance away on the path. He’s the tiniest bit out of breath, like he might have hurried on foot from wherever he’s been until now.
“Oh, hi,” I say. That’s all I come up with in my flustered state.
He simply stands there without saying anything, and even in the dim light, I can detect the tight set of his jaw.
“I was looking for Alison,” I add, scrambling. “She invited me to drop by her studio.”
He squints as if confused.
“Alison isn’t here,” he says. “She’s out for the evening.”
Has he guessed that I’ve fudged the truth? Hopefully he’ll tell himself I’m simply a jet-lagged, grief-addled woman, unsure of which end is up.
“Ah, okay. No worries.”
“It is worrisome, though—that you’ve come all this way for no reason. It’s not like Alison to forget a meeting.”
“She didn’t forget,” I say. I move away from the window and plant myself back on the path. “We hadn’t set up a specific time. I just took a chance she’d be here.”
“I see. Well, do check with her first if you find the time to stop by again,” he says.
He shifts position slightly, and thanks to the direction of the light, I can see his face better now.
He looks slightly vexed, like I’ve tapped his bumper with my own in a parking lot.
“I’m sure she’d love to show you her work, but she’s quite busy lately, and there’s no guarantee she’ll be in the studio on any given day. ”
“Will do.”
He goes quiet again and seems to study me.
“I take it you’ve had a busy week so far,” he says finally, his tone softer now.
“Fairly, yes . . . And, oh, I got the copies of The Muse. Thank you for your help on those.”
“Happy to do what I can.”
I take a breath, no longer quite as flustered. “At dinner, you also mentioned that you might have some of Melanie’s work in a file at home. You probably haven’t had a chance to look yet, though.”
He clears his throat. “No, actually, I did look at lunchtime today and was going to email you. Unfortunately, I didn’t find anything.”
“Well, I appreciate the effort,” I say, disheartened by the news. “And—and there’s no other place her work might be?”
A beat passes. And then another.
“I’m afraid not.”
“Good night, then. And sorry to disturb you.”
“Wait,” he says as I start to brush past him. “Would you like me to call you a cab? You can come in the house while you’re waiting.”
Instinctively, I glance in that direction, where the only light burning is over the stoop. A faint ripple of fear runs through me. No, I think. I don’t want to go into that house with you and wait for you to call a cab.