Page 110 of Dying to Meet You

By four, I’m alone in the office, which makes it easy to pick up my bag and head outside. Riley is waiting at the curb, alone in an unmarked Subaru.

I slide into the front seat. Riley turns the car around and then navigates toward the north, away from the water.

“Do you need me to look up the address?”

She shakes her head.

“She probably won’t even be home,” I point out.

“I did a drive-by. And she works nights as a cocktail waitress. Thank you for doing this, by the way.”

“I’m not doing it for you,” I point out. “It’s for Tim. And for my daughter, who will lose her mind if her father is arrested again.”

“I heard about your new roommate.”

“It’s not illegal to house my daughter’s father for a few days.”

She’s wise enough not to comment on that. “Let’s discuss your conversation with Peebles. What are you going to ask her?”

“If she doesn’t slam the door in my face? I’ll tell her how sorry I am for her loss. And I’ll ask her how long she’d been in touch with Tim. And then I’m just going to listen to whatever she’s willing to share. And give her his watch.”

“Not a bad strategy. I’d like the dates of when she and Tim made contact.” She pulls up to a stop sign and plucks a device out of her purse. “Take this. It’s a recording device...”

“What?That’s not the plan. I’m not recording that woman without her permission.”

“New plan,” she says. Then she pulls over to the curb and turns to face me. “Take the mic, Rowan. You say you want Tim’s killer caught. But you keep lying to me. You lied about knowing where Tim was on the night of his death—”

“Why do you think so?” I gulp.

But I already know what she’s about to say, and her unyielding gaze misses nothing as she watches me panic. “A judge gave us your phone data, Rowan. We know you checked the FriendFinder app before you left your house. And you unfollowed him en route.”

My whole body flashes hot and then cold.Oh God. “If I were Tim’s killer, that would be a pretty stupid thing to do.”

She gives half a shrug. Her poker face is better than mine. “You keep insisting there’s a deep, complicated reason for Tim’s death. But all I see are simple jealousies. You told me yourself you were angry that he dumped you. And then there’s Harrison, who kept a photo of you in his bedroom. Now you’re housing him for a nice little family reunion and probably paying for that new lawyer he has.”

My brain is static, and it takes me a long beat to reply. “You can’t make a murder case out of my family drama. Ofcoursewe need lawyers, so long as you’re focused on the wrong things.”

“That’s why you’re going to help me focus on the right things,” she says crisply. “Record the conversation you have with Ms. Peebles. If something fishy happened to her and Tim when he was born, I need to know it sooner rather than later.”

“Iamcooperating.”

“Then take this.” She puts the recording device in my lap. “Put it in your bag, and leave your bag unzipped. There’s a switch on the side.”

The car starts again, but I barely register the neighborhoods we’re passing over the pounding of my heart.

Now theyknowI lied. If I don’t help her, it could be my face on the nightly news.

When we arrive at Peebles’s address, Riley passes the house and parks down the street. “Don’t forget to turn the device on,” she says. “Good luck, Rowan. We need this.”

Feeling shaky, I get out of the car and walk back toward the little one-story house where Laura Peebles lives. The homes on this street are in various states of repair. Little old houses on small lots. Most were built in the sixties. Many have been shined up, but some have cracked front walks and faded siding. And shingle roofs that have seen better days.

Ms. Peebles house is avocado-green, with a slightly overgrown lawn. The doors and windows are shut tightly, but there’s an aging Ford truck in the driveway. I climb onto the peeling porch and knock.

Then, feeling like the worst kind of traitor, I reach into my bag and switch on the recording device. Unless I’m totally wrong about who she is, talking about Tim will be painful for her. Recording our conversation will be a betrayal.

And yet I knock again.

The door opens suddenly, and there she is, squinting at me, her expression wary. “Do I know you?”