Page 125 of Dying to Meet You

I pop off the futon without a word. Upstairs, I change into sweatpants and an old T-shirt, and head to the bathroom to wipe off my makeup. From behind Natty’s closed door, I hear the shrieks of two teenage girls laughing.

I return downstairs to find Harrison standing in my kitchen, looking like he belongs in it. Maybe this is his strategy. To ingratiate himself with my daughter and lull me into submission with soup. And also by looking as hot at forty-two as he did at twenty-two.

Men. It’s not fair.

“Here,” he says, putting a bowl of soup onto the table. “We put a dent in the crackers, but I saved you a few.” After I sit, he sets down a saucer with four toasty-looking crackers on it.

I pull the bowl toward me, dip in the spoon, and take a sip. “Wow. Good as ever.”

“Glad you still like it.” He’s smart enough not to look smug, and this solidifies my belief that he’s playing the long game.

“So tell me this—why do you think your mother had that medallion? You said she worked at the mansion when you were little. That’s the early eighties. The maternity home was still open then.”

“What if she just stole it? Maybe there was a stash of them in the office.”

“Maybe,” I concede. “You don’t know what she did there?”

“No idea. But she was only nineteen when I was born. Whatever thejob was, it had to be something pretty basic. Cleaning. Food prep. Laundry. Those were the kinds of jobs she always had.”

“Do you remember ever going there with her?”

He shakes his head.

“She was so young,” I say slowly. “What ifshewas born at the mansion?”

Another shake of his head. “She was born in Canada. Moved here when she was a toddler.”

“Oh right. I wish we knew other people who worked there at the same time. Somebody might remember her.”

“But Ro.” Harrison pins me with a gray-eyed glare. “This isn’t your mystery to solve. If you really think Hank Wincott is violent, and hell-bent on keeping this shit buried, then maybe you should let him. Can’t forget that warning someone sent you.”

“I mean, obviously, this is a job for the police. But I want them to have all the information.”So they leave you and me alone.

He reaches across the table and covers my hand with his. “Just watch yourself. Would Hank have any reason to believe you’re a threat—that you’ve already seen too many of his family skeletons?”

My heart thumps against my chest. Because not an hour ago I asked Hank about Marcus Wincott. “I’ll be careful.”

“Natalie needs you,” he whispers.

“I know,” I whisper back, getting trapped in the tractor beam of his serious gaze.

We’re having a staring contest. And neither of us can figure out who’s going to break first.

He does, as it turns out. He stands up and takes my now-empty soup bowl over to the sink, rinses it, and puts it in the dishwasher.

The cat slides her body between his ankles, and after he dries his hands, he scoops her up into a football hold.

“Thank you for the soup,” I say as he turns to leave the kitchen.

He stops beside me, and I wait for him to say something. Instead, he bends down and kisses me gently on the forehead. It’s a quick press of warmth and whiskers.

He’s left the kitchen by the time I realize I’m holding my breath.

45

Wednesday

My sleep is filled with confusing dreams—I can’t figure out exactly where I am and I’ve lost the map. When I finally see another person, it’s a man with his back to me. I want to ask directions, but I’m afraid of him.