Chapter 21
I know I shouldn’t leave my hand there. It’s too strange to have mine under Logan’s, and he might even feel how fast my blood is pumping through my veins. But if I jerk away, I’ll send a weird message.
After a short while, I tap his hand a few times with my free one, like I’m petting a dog who’s put his head on my knee, and then slowly slide my fingers out from under his.
“That means a lot,” I say.
I feel ill at ease with Logan for the first time this evening, unnerved by how aroused I was by his touch. I know he’d probably like an espresso now—he sometimes drank them until midnight without a problem—but I tell him I’m tired and would like to get back to the inn.
“Of course,” he says, and then signals to the waiter for the check. “I’m tired, too, and I want to look over my remarks for tomorrow night before turning in.”
I try my hardest to make the waiter accept my credit card along with Logan’s, but my ex insists on paying the bill, saying it was his idea to come here.
As we depart the restaurant, I thank him in the polite tones I might use if I were one of his work colleagues—though not one he’s fucking—and I keep a few feet between us on our walk across the parking lot.
We stay quiet on the car ride back. Not the kind of companionable silence from years back but an awkward one, as if I’ve dragged my discomfort from the end of the meal into the car with us.
Does he sense what happened to me back there? I hope this was the first time in his life that he couldn’t read the room.
We turn into the inn parking lot. Before Logan climbs out of the car, his phone pings.
“A text from Halligan,” he announces. It’s the first he’s spoken since we left the restaurant. “He wants to do a call with us at half past noon tomorrow.”
I nod, relieved at the news.
“There’s a small meeting room at the rear of the inn,” he says. “I’ll see if I can reserve it for tomorrow, and then we can put him on speakerphone.”
“Good idea. Though, gosh, by now he’s probably heard I met with Morgan Kroll. I bet he’s really pissed.”
“He’ll get over it.”
Logan pauses at the front door and studies me intently. I pull back ever so slightly, worried that, God forbid, he’s about to offer a comforting hug.
“Are you going to be okay until then?” he asks.
“Yeah, thanks. I’ll probably walk over to campus at some point and peek at the new Muse office.”
He smiles. “It’s not quite finished yet, but you’ll get the picture. And I think you’ll be impressed.”
Good ol’ Shelly glances up as we enter the lobby, tells us “Good evening,” and returns to her busywork. If she’s curious about what happened to the third player in our sad little drama, she’s not letting on.
“I think I’ll grab a sparkling water from the bar,” I say to Logan.
“Good night, then,” he says, offering a wan smile.
As soon as the elevator starts to ascend, I take the stairs to my room. I kick off my shoes, peel off my clothes, and after getting into pajamas, I perch on the edge of the bed, hoping to quiet my thoughts.
What I’m not going to do is beat myself up over the twinge of desire I felt at the restaurant.
It says nothing about my love and desire for Bas.
Obviously, it was just some kind of muscle memory, triggered—thanks to a stupid decision on my part—by being in such an intimate setting with Logan.
Sex, after all, had been a vivid part of our relationship, an almost ever-present erotic hum, even when we were livid with each other and barely speaking.
Of course, not during our last year together.
We seldom even kissed through those crushing months.
In late summer, when I finally reached out for Logan in bed—when I thought sex might, at the very least, help stave off my desire to die—he had no interest. Or rather, as I soon learned, he had no interest in sex with me at that time.
And it’s not like I still feel anything for Logan, other than gratitude for having him as my ally this week.
If I’m being honest with myself, there’ve been stray moments when I’ve recalled my feelings for him and how much they defined such a huge chunk of my life.
But that’s the same as being in an old, ramshackle house and sensing the ghost of someone who died before their time or even against their will.
I just need to be more mindful, I think. That means avoiding dimly lit settings and not getting into conversations with him about stuff like chicken piccata and bistros we once escaped to on frigid nights. This trip is all about Melanie, and that’s the only thing that matters.
I grab my phone and send a quick text to Bas, even though I’m certain he’s sleeping now, trying to fight off his cold.
Hope you feel better by the time you get this. Miss you terribly. xoxo
Though my unsettled state seems to permeate my dreams, I wake feeling resolute—and within minutes I have a solid plan for the morning. As I told Logan, I want to see the Muse office, but there are now several things ahead of that on my list.
For starters, I’m going to try to learn more about Handler this morning. It might not matter in the bigger scheme of things, but if he was Mel’s secret crush or lover, I want to know.
I also intend to find out if the creative content archive still exists and whether it contains any of Mel’s work—and I’ve decided to solicit the pesky Chip Conway’s help on that front.
And I’m going to make a trip this morning to Mohegan Park, where Riley was attacked. Maybe if I survey it with my own eyes, and everything is just as she described, it will be a final verification for me.
Sitting at the desk in my room, I do a Google search on Handler, just to see if there’s anything more to find online.
He’s not on social media, so nothing to go by on that front, and there’s no media coverage of any scandals in his past—he wouldn’t be at Carter if there were.
Mostly what I end up with are reviews of his poetry books, and the occasional profile accompanying them.
Interestingly, he speaks in one article about the need for a poet to live freely. Live freely to do what? I wonder.
It’s after ten when I finish, and time to phone Chip, though I end up with only voicemail. I ask him to call me as soon as possible. He’s going to mistakenly think I’ve decided to fill him in about the case, but that’s okay. Whatever it takes to have him get in touch.
After grabbing a coffee to go in the lobby, I order an Uber to take me to the park.
While in the back of the car, with the cardboard coffee cup gripped between my feet on the floor, I send a text to Bas, one I’ve been mulling over since I woke up.
Until now I’ve been so worried about the danger of telling Bas too much that I’ve failed to see the price I could pay for telling him too little, that it might be creating a gulf between us.
I have to take a chance that our relationship can handle all of it.
Sweetheart, just wanted to say sorry about always rushing you off the phone. Things are crazy here and constantly shifting. Will tell you much more when I can and we’ll have lots of time to talk when I’m home. Xoxo
Finished, I finally glance out the window.
As we zip down a street of colorful clapboard houses and still barren trees, I realize I’m almost weighted down with dread.
I’m going to Mohegan Park, not Pebble Creek, a place I forced myself to see once and vowed never to return to, but they’re bound to be similar.
I’m wrong, though. Stepping out of the car, I discover that this park bears little resemblance to Pebble Creek, or at the least the one seared in my memory.
That park, ironically, was designed to be a woody sanctuary right in the middle of town, a place to simply wander through or view the creek from a weathered bench.
Mohegan turns out to be much more of a recreational park.
I spot a large playground, a sandbox, and a turquoise-painted spray pool, all of which send other kinds of memories surging back.
When Mel was young, I used to take her after work, and weather permitting, to a small, nondescript playground in Tribeca.
She particularly liked the sandbox, but not for any reason other kids did.
“Do you want to build something, honey?” I asked her once when she was probably five or so. “You have your shovel.”
“No, that’s okay. I just want to sit here and pretend.”
“Pretend what?”
“That this is the Land of the Sand. And I’m the ruler.”
It’s chilly today, and most of the people here are moms or sitters with kids, braving the unspring-like weather to use the playground.
I pause and survey my surroundings. An older man is jogging farther ahead of me, and I realize he must be on the path Riley said she was using when her assailant approached her.
I start walking again, and as I near the path, I notice picnic tables in the general area, each tucked under a different maple tree. Riley said that after being struck on the back of her head, she’d been dragged to a table. My stomach turns as I realize it might have been one of these.
The jogging path stretches both ways into the distance, but this seems to be the only spot with tables nearby. Making sure I’m not about to collide with anyone, I dart across the path.
And then, just below me, I spot the creek.
The water’s only a few feet high, and clear, which means I can see down to the endless gray and black pebbles that line the bottom.
I run my gaze along the bank. There’s a gentle slope from where I’m standing, meaning someone could scramble down easily enough, perhaps even with their shorts below their knees.
The creek is barely moving, though, which makes me wonder why her attacker hadn’t followed her down the embankment and dragged her back onto shore. Surely he would have done anything to keep her from escaping and later identifying him.