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Impossible.
Whoever this woman who’d shown up here this morning was, it could not be Brie.
How could it be? Unless …
“You done?” asked Brian Feehan, holding out his hand.
“I want to email myself this image.”
Brian seemed to be trying to think of any reason he should say no, and, not coming up with one, slowly said, “Fine, go ahead.”
It took me a second to figure out how to export the photo, but once I had, I typed in my own email address and hit send. A couple of seconds later, I heard the ding of an incoming message in my front pocket.
I gave him back the tablet. “Thanks.”
“Well?” he said. “Who is that?”
“No idea,” I said.
“But you want the picture anyway,” he said.
“Sorry to trouble you.”
As I started heading back to my ride I got out my phone to check that the pic had arrived intact. And it had, from Brian Feehan’s email address. I opened the email, made sure the picture was at least as good as the image from Feehan’s tablet—which was not saying a lot—and then closed it.
And wondered what the hell I should do with it. What I was supposed to feel about it.
Shocked? Bewildered? Hopeful? Worried?
Bewildered, certainly. I hardly knew how else to react to the picture without knowing what it really meant. Was I meant to believe that Brie was back, after six years?
I had questions, but wasn’t sure what they were or to whom they should be directed. But I needed to talk to somebody. I got out my phone, opened my contacts, and scrolled down to the R’s. I tapped on a name, put the phone to my ear, and waited for the pickup.
“Hey,” he said. “What’s happening?”
“Greg,” I said. “It’s me. How’s it going?”
“Been worse. Still buying lottery tickets, though, so I can become a man of leisure. What’s up?”
“Need to talk.”
“Yeah, sure.” His voice went low. “You in a bad place again, man?”
“No, it’s not that.”
“’Cause you sound sober.”
“I am.”
“Good, good, that’s good. I never want to see you like you were that time. So what’s happening?”
“I got something I need to show you. Where are you?”
“You know the old TrumbullGate Mall? The one they mothballed?”
I had to think. Maybe fifteen to twenty minutes north and west of Milford. “Yeah, and I can GPS it if I have to. What are you doing up there?”
“Picking over the bones. One of the owners, an old friend, is letting me go through it, recovering all kinds of stuff I can use before they hold a proper auction. From pipe to shelving to railings and fire extinguishers. All kinds of shit.”
