Page 83 of Dying to Meet You

Nobody can be trusted. Not Tim, and certainly not Jules. She played her hand so well.As a journalist, I’m appalled at his death. A journalist who wasmarriedto Tim.

The worst part is that I remember asking Tim if he’d ever been married. He’d said no.

I pick up my phone again and delete the text I’d been writing to Jules. If she wants the name of Tim’s birth mother so bad, she can find it herself.

29

Coralie

Coralie sits in Marcy’s Diner, waiting for someone who probably won’t show. The woman she’s expecting had sounded really cagey on the phone.

Coming here was probably foolish. Mr. Wincott is away at a meeting, and she’s supposed to stick close to her desk and answer the phone. If he finds out she’s gone, he’ll be awful. But this is the only time and place that Ms. Elizabeth Jones would halfheartedly agree to meet her.

She scans the menu as her stomach growls.Breakfast all day, it boasts, and the scent of bacon hangs in the air.

Lately, her appetite is an insatiable beast. It’s a good thing the two-egg breakfast is only $3.99, and it comes with bacon and coffee.

She glances around the restaurant again, just in case she missed Elizabeth Jones during her first survey of the place. But none of the customers look like Mr. Wincott’s type.

A harried waitress skids to a stop in front of her. “Do you know what you want?”

She places her order. “But could you, um, make the coffee decaf?”

“Sure, honey.”

A girl has to eat, even if she’s been stood up. Her food arrives almost immediately, which is a special trick of diners.

She picks up her fork and digs in. The first bite makes her even hungrier than she was before. She scoops some of the eggs onto a butter-drenched triangle of toast. It won’t help her clothes fit any better, but she can’t seem to care right now.

The plate is nearly empty by the time the waitress stops by again. “You need more decaf?”

“No, thank you.”

“You’re Coralie, then?” She slides into the opposite side of the booth. “I’m Elizabeth.”

Coralie is caught off guard. This waitress isn’t as pretty as she expected, and her polyester uniform doesn’t do her any favors. At first glance, she’s not Mr. Wincott’s type, but there are hints of a curvy body behind her apron.

“Thank you for meeting me,” Coralie says quietly.

“You said you found my name in a personnel file?” She has frown lines on her forehead.

“Right. But first I found it in his checkbook. The secret one. He left the drawer open.”

Her eyes widen. Elizabeth wears contact lenses that are several shades too bright. They make her eyes look otherworldly. “Can’t believe he’s getting sloppy in his old age. And I’m not supposed to talk about”—she clears her throat—“any of it.”

I’ll bet.

“How many special month-end checks does he write these days?” Elizabeth asks.

“Three,” Coralie whispers.

She sniffs. “I’m surprised it isn’t more. Are you going to make it four?”

“That’s kind of why I asked you to meet me. I seem to be in a bit of trouble.” Coralie glances down toward her expanding waistline. “I need advice.”

“And you thought I’d help you?” Her eyes narrow.

“No. But I had to ask.” Coralie gives this stranger what she hopes is a plaintive smile. “I’m afraid of him. He’s so scary when he’s mad.” She shivers for effect. “And I haven’t told him yet. I’m afraid of what he’ll say.”