Page 64 of The Night We Lost Him

I smile at him.

“Anyway, Taylor’s niece was in my class. Scholarship student, super bright. Taylor came up all the time to see her. And I don’t know how to explain it exactly… I just… she had me from the start. But I wasn’t going to be the creepy teacher hitting on one of my kids’ aunts, so I didn’t do anything about it. And then we met again, years later, in a completely different capacity. What are the odds of that?”

“I imagine not high.”

“Exactly.”

He heads toward the driveway.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to show you the property. It’s gorgeous. There’s a lake.”

“Sam.”

“It’s really more like a pond.”

“This is creepy.”

“Why? Taylor and I are on great terms. And she’s not here anyway. She’s at work. She’s a family lawyer. Absolutely brilliant and so cool.” He looks at the clock on his dashboard. “She’s still in court.”

He turns toward me, an idea springing into his eyes, like a piece of inspiration.

“You want to meet her?”

“Sam…”

“Let’s meet her.”

* * *

We head downtown, the snow kicking up again.

We drive past the Senate House and the Ulster County Courthouse, Sam pulling past the main drag—bread stores and bookstores and coffee shops—before turning onto a quieter road where he parks in front of a gray brick house, a small gold plaque reading FITZGERALD LAW LLC, which is my only indication that this is a law office.

Sam gets out of the car. “You want the best doughnut you’ve ever had?” he asks.

“What are we doing here?”

“She’ll be out of court any minute. Hopefully I’ll beat her back here. Just wait there in case.”

He motions to the steps in front of the house.

“In the snow?”

“Don’t be a baby. It’s barely coming down.”

Sam disappears down the street. And I get out of the car and have a seat on the steps, taking in the street around me. There is another law office, a church, a group of adorable kids biking by, out of school for the day.

I move onto a higher step, protected by the overhang, and start going through my phone messages. Jack left a short message and texted a few times. He told me he was on the way to the restaurant, checked in to see how it was going, asked what time I’d be home.

I’d really like to talk

That feels like a knife through my chest, knowing we need that and not wanting to need that.

I start to write back when I get an email alert. It’s one of the two forensic pathologists. More accurately, it’s his assistant, letting me know that his boss is testifying at a trial in Seattle through the end of the week. That he’ll try to get back to me then.

Then, as quickly as he is gone, Sam is back, carrying a bag of fresh doughnuts and three orange drinks.