Page 20

Rowan

Our order isn’t ready, so I wait outside our neighborhood dumpling house and check my email. I glance up when Lickie makes a warning noise.

I’m instantly on my guard, but the person approaching us isn’t scary at all. She’s very pretty, with wide-set eyes and kickass ankle boots. “Excuse me, Rowan?”

It takes me a second to place her, but then I realize where I’ve seen her before—on my front walk. She’s the reporter who said she knew Tim.

I shove my phone into my pocket and choke up on Lickie’s leash. “I’m sorry. I still can’t talk to you.” I turn to go, willing to abandon our dinner to avoid this conversation.

“Wait,” she says. “I know you can’t talk, but can you listen for a minute? I have information that concerns you.”

“I doubt that,” I say, even as my spine tingles.

She leans against the building, eyeing me intently. “Look, I know the police have interviewed you multiple times. You’re still a person of interest in the case.”

I feel sick. “How do you know that?”

“By palling around with the local reporters.” She shrugs. “Sometimes they have friends in the police department. Sometimes they overhear things. And if you’re a flirty, female reporter from out of town, sometimes you hear things, too.”

God . “The police and I don’t have much more to say to each other,” I say stiffly. “It sounds like you already know more than I do.”

“You’re right about that,” she says quietly. Then she looks up and down the street, as if to make sure we can’t be overheard. “But you’re involved in this thing whether you want to be or not. I think Kovak was killed for a story he was working on. And I’m a journalist, too, Rowan. That’s horrifying to me.”

“But why are you so sure?” A selfish part of me hopes she’s right, though. Because if that’s true, his death has nothing to do with me or my family.

“All his notebooks were taken from his car. The police can’t find them.”

“Yes, that’s weird.” But it’s also flimsy evidence.

Her gaze doesn’t leave mine. “Here’s the thing—before he died, Tim asked me to run a whole bunch of background checks. He and I sometimes traded favors like that, because he was very skilled at money stuff, and I’m better at criminal stuff.”

“And?” I can already tell that I won’t like whatever she says next.

“Let me show you some names,” she says in a low voice. “You can tell me if they’re familiar.” She reaches into her pocket for her phone and opens the Notes app.

“I thought I was listening, not answering questions.”

“Just look,” she whispers. “It won’t kill you.”

“Isn’t that what Tim thought, too?” Still, I can’t resist a glance at the list. There are a few names, all women. None are familiar, though. “Sorry. I don’t know any of these people.”

“Okay. How about these?” She taps something on her phone and hands it back.

I read another list of four names—first initial and surname. “Shit,” I whisper as a wave of fear buzzes through me. Because these names are familiar.

“What?”

“These names were all in a photograph that Tim stole off my phone.” From the handwritten birth ledger. “Did he tell you I was his source when he gave you the names?”

She shakes her head slowly. “Lucky guess on my part.”

“Not to speak ill of the dead...” I take a shaky breath. “But I might have been more of a research project than a girlfriend to him.”

Her expression turns empathetic. “I’m thinking you might be right. Because that first list of names I showed you? All those women worked for Marcus Wincott during the sixties and seventies. Tim wanted to interview them.”

My stomach drops. “Marcus Wincott ran the Portland Magdalene home. At the mansion.”

“Right,” she says quietly. “And Tim told me he was chasing a big story.”

“About the home? Or the Wincott family?”

“He didn’t say, probably because we’re competitors. He thought I might scoop him.” She flashes me a quick smile. “Since he died, I’ve been running every name I just showed you. I don’t have a lot to go on, but I’m convinced that he made someone very angry.”

“Look.” I rub my forehead where an ache is blooming. “It’s not that I’m not curious. And I know Tim was smart. But he never mentioned any of this, and it’s a pretty huge lie of omission. Whatever you’re digging for, I can’t help you. I work for the Wincott family, and I’d like to keep my job.”

“Right. But how much do you really know about that boss of yours? Did you know he wants to run for Senate?”

It’s probably very clear by the expression on my face that I didn’t know that.

“Everyone’s expecting Oliver Bean to announce his retirement before the year is out. That will give Hank almost a whole year to mount a campaign.”

“What are you implying?” My mind whirs. “That Tim found something dodgy about Hank Wincott’s”—what was their relationship?—“Uncle? Great-uncle? And Hank is so fired up about his future campaign that he’d shoot Tim in the face ?”

“I’m not saying he pulled the trigger.” She glances around again. “And I don’t know what Tim dug up. Not yet, anyway. But somebody wanted him dead, Rowan. Someone shot him and then took his computer, his phone, and all his notebooks. Somebody did it.”

I feel cold all over.

“I’m still digging into all these names, but the last four are a problem.” She taps on her phone, where the second set of names is still showing. “Without a first name, it’s a big haystack with too many needles.”

The door of the restaurant opens, and a harried server in a black apron comes out with a paper bag. “Gallagher?”

“That’s me.” I show him the order screen on my phone, and he hands over the bag. “Thank you.” I wait until he disappears inside again before I turn to the reporter. “Did you actually follow me here? That’s creepy. It’s almost as creepy as, say, Tim dating me just to get information off my phone.”

She winces. “That’s bad behavior, and honestly, I’m surprised. I always knew him as a stand-up guy. Maybe it was complicated.”

It’s still complicated . “I don’t think I can help you. I don’t know anything, and I’m not allowed to talk to journalists. I need to go feed my kid.”

Lickie noses the bag of food hopefully.

“Wait,” the reporter hisses. “This was personal for him.”

Something keeps me from striding away. “You mean... the mansion?”

“He was born there,” she says, her eyes flicking up the street.

I grip the bag tightly, afraid I’ll drop it. The second I’d learned Tim was adopted, I’d wondered about it. “He told you that?”

“His mother did.” She swallows. “I was over there after the funeral, offering to help clean out his place in New York. During our conversation, she mentioned he died outside the building where he was born.”

I have chills. “Did she know he was investigating... something?”

She shakes her head. “And I haven’t told her. But I did tell the police.”

For once I’m relieved to hear that the police are involved. “And what did they say?”

“Not much.” Her mouth twists. “It’s quicker to focus on his ex-girlfriend, right? Especially when my theory sounds crazy—a man got himself killed looking for his birth parents.”

“Because it is crazy,” I point out. “People find their birth parents all the time. What’s the worst that could happen if Tim’s bio family was discovered? Someone is a little embarrassed?”

“That’s what I need to know,” she says. “And you’re the only one I can think of with access to the Wincotts’ archives. I need you to find the record of his birth—in that ledger you found. I need to see the page from 1979.”

For a moment I only stare at her. “You’re asking me to look up something that might have gotten Tim killed. Do I have that right?”

Her smile turns wry. “You get the photo of the page. I’ll be the one digging up the dirt, Rowan. It’s what I do.”

“But why would I do that? I’d be risking my job for something that doesn’t have a thing to do with me.” And it never did. Not even from the first day Tim claimed to be so fascinated with me.

“Because the police would love to pin this on you.”

“They can’t,” I insist, even as an icy spike of fear hits my breastbone. “I didn’t have anything to do with his death.”

She shrugs. “A conviction would be a long shot, I admit. But even an arrest would put you all over the news. Might be hard to find jobs after that.”

“You’re just as manipulative as Tim.” I push off the wall, feeling shaky.

“Just get me his birth mother’s name,” she says. “I’ll find her on the sly. It’s the right thing to do, Rowan. Tim deserves justice, and I’m going to get it for him.” She thrusts a sticky note in my direction.

I take it from her. It says Jules , no last name. The phone number has a New York prefix.

This woman is so “sketch,” as my daughter would say. I take the sticky note anyway and tuck it into my pocket. “I don’t know if I can help you.”

“But you’ll think about it?” she asks.

I’ll probably think of nothing else.