Page 78 of Dying to Meet You

I think the Home’s directors were hoping for a summer-camp feel, but the close quarters resembled a prison. Metal beds and lockers. Cheap bedside tables. Everything was depressingly spartan.

Now I look at the room with different eyes. Did Tim’s birth mother ever stay here? Did she give birth upstairs in the West Room—the onewith the paintings of horses on the wall? That’s where we’d found a baby scale, high-beam lights, and an obstetrical bed with stirrups still pointing toward the painted ceiling.

I have to wonder why Tim didn’t simply tell me about the deeply personal connection he had to this place. Was he ashamed? Or maybe he thought he was protecting me from something dangerous.

But that doesn’t track, either. What secret could’ve gotten him killed? The Wincott who ran the home has been dead for over twenty years. I know because I googled it at four in the morning the other night.

Matt stands by a stack of chairs, lifting one chair after another to study the bottoms of their seats. This is a thing furniture people do. The manufacturer’s marks are always on the underside of the chairs.

“This is a French piece, mid-nineteenth century. You see this dark spot?” His tone is scandalized.

I peer at the cross pieces under the seat. “Sure?”

“Chewing gum,” he says distastefully. “That’s a tragedy.”

I’d agree with him, except my definition of a tragedy has shifted since last week.

I join Lillian at another grouping of furniture. “These are battered,” she says, examining a side chair. “How does a chair get scarred like this?” She runs her fingertips over the chewed-up outer edge of the piece.

I lean down and peer more closely. The scars are deep, the finish and some of the wood grain scratched away, as if something abrasive was dragged repeatedly against the edge. The abuse seems purposeful. When I examine the opposite side of the chair, I find more of the same thing. “It’s symmetric.”

“Bothsides?” Lillian raises her eyebrows. “Even my sister’s cats couldn’t do that kind of damage. But maybe teenagers are worse. You know the house was used for a maternity home?”

“I’m familiar.”

***

The morning drags on, punctuated by texts from Natalie.

Natalie: Did you hear anything about Dad?

Rowan: Heard some technical stuff about his arrest. We’ll talk tonight. Did you write to your bio teacher about the retake?

No response.

When the designer and the furniture guy finally leave, Beatrice corners me and asks her favorite question. “Are you okay? You look exhausted.”

“I’m fine. Natalie is a mess, though.”

She cringes. “That poor kid.”

“Yeah,” I agree. “I can’t imagine what’s in her head right now.”

“Do you think he really did it?” Beatrice whispers. “Because if he did...”

She doesn’t finish the sentence, but we both know what she means—I ought to feel grateful that he’s off the streets again.

“I don’t know what to think. I can’t picture him killing a man for dating me.”

“Are you sure?” she asks warily. “Men are so...” She sighs. “He wouldn’t be the first one, you know? Abusers never change their stripes. The best you can do is get away.”

I’ve heard this many times, including from both my parents. “Listen—has Hank said anything about my connection to Harrison? Do you think he knows?”

Hank is so hung up on optics that I’m bracing myself for more of the anger he showed to Beatrice earlier in the week. And I’m due in the man’s office in an hour.

“Well...” Beatrice frowns. “I didn’t mention it to him. And I won’t. And he’s pretty pumped up to see some progress from the police.” She makes a thoughtful face. “But Rowan—he’s likely to find out. He knows a lot of people in city hall.”

God. “And how do you think he’ll react?”