Page 118 of Dying to Meet You

Her mother hands the scissors back over her shoulder.

He frowns over the back of the dress for another moment, like a surgeon finishing up with a patient. “Okay, problem solved.” He hands back the scissors just as they hear a car approach. “I think he’s here.”

43

Rowan

I shove my feet into the navy pumps and stand up. Hank Wincott is outside, and now I have to spend the next several hours pretending that I didn’t just hear horrible stories about Hank’s uncle and what went on in the Wincott Mansion.

“Thank you both.” I grab my clutch. “Got to run.”

Natalie shrugs moodily. “You’re going to miss the tomato soup and homemade crackers. But whatever.”

My gaze flies to Harrison. “You made thesoup?”

He shrugs. “There will be leftovers.”

Heading for the door, I grab a trench coat off the coat tree. A wave of garlic-scented air wafts in my direction, and I feel a pang of naked longing for Harrison’s tomato soup. He used to make it all the time that first year in Ithaca. I’d walk into our little apartment and find him stirring the only pot we owned in our galley kitchen.

“Lipstick!” Natalie yells as I walk out the door.

“Love you,” is all I reply.

Her answering smile is so conflicted.

Outside, the breeze shakes the new leaves on the trees, and I’m grateful for Natalie’s heavy hand with the hair spritz. Hank’s just climbing out of his Jag. “There she is,” he says with his homecoming-king grin.

He’s only half right, though, because I’m only half here. Even as I exchange pleasantries and slip into the passenger seat of his luxury car, my mind is on the spin cycle.

Handing over that recording to Detective Riley had gutted me. In fact, I threatened to erase it until she told me they wouldn’t pursue Laura Peebles for any drug-related crimes.

“I already knew she was an addict,” Riley told me. “She has a prior drug conviction.”

“She’s been through a lot,” I’d said guiltily.

But ultimately, I’d handed the recording over. If someone killed Tim because of his investigation, I need the police to find him.

Now I’m sitting in a Jaguar beside the person with the most to lose if Laura’s story becomes public. And I’m supposed to spend the evening smiling brightly and representing the good works of the Wincott Foundation. In a dress that Harrison stitched me into.

I pull a lipstick out of my bag and apply it, as Natalie would want me to.

“You look lovely tonight,” Hank says as the car glides down another narrow West End street.

“Thank you,” I say stiffly. “I’m ready to woo the historic preservationists of Portland.”

He chuckles. “I appreciate that. I know you had a chaotic week.”

You don’t know the half of it, pal.

Or does he? Now that I’ve heard Laura’s story, I realize how ugly things could get for the foundation. And he’s the head of that organization. The records from all those adoptions are under his control.

I wonder if there were formal complaints against Marcus, or even financial settlements.

They brought me a dead baby.

I shiver.

“If the air is up too high, feel free to adjust it.”