Robin and Nicola were in the hallway when Robin’s cell phone rang. She glanced at the screen. Detective Morasco. “It’s work,” she told Nicola. “I’ll need to take this in the other room.” She slipped down the hall and into her old room, closing the door behind her. “Hello?”
“Robin?” His voice sounded strange. Agitated.
“Is something wrong?”
“That text you sent me, from Quentin Garrison. ‘I am not a good person.’”
“Yes?”
“You sure the time on it is correct?”
“Excuse me?”
“I mean, it says 9:13 on it. You’re positive that’s 9:13P.M., notA.M.”
“Absolutely. It was nighttime. I was at home with Eric. I’d called Quentin, but his mailbox was full. He sent me that text about fifteen minutes later.”
“Wow... Okay.”
“What’s the problem?”
“We have an estimated time of death back from the coroner, and it’s between elevenA.M.and oneP.M.” Robin thought back to their phone call, the children’s voices in the background—same as on the audiotape.
“The text came in eight hours later.”
“You see the problem.”
“Yes,” Robin said, her skin going cold. “I see the problem.”
ROBIN TOOK Ashower. Changed her clothes, the whole time thinking about the text she’d received, that first apology. Someone else had sent it, eight hours after Garrison’s death.
And if someone else had gotten Garrison’s phone, only to replace it so it could be found on his dead body, who had that person been? If someone had gotten his phone, that same person could have easily forced him to confess and shot him. That same person could have shot her parents. She hadn’t gone over all that with Morasco, because like most cops, Nicola included, he kept things close to the vest.
Nicola Crane, what a cop she must have been—with that crazylaugh and that cool blue gaze, steady as a gun sight...The point I’m trying to make, Robin, is that we all have pasts. And very often, the people we love are better off not knowing about them.
Nicola Crane, the opposite of an open book. A sealed, locked journal, with God knows what written inside. These past few days had been so emotional. Yet not once had Robin seen her shed a tear outside of laughter. Not even as her dear foster sister lay in intensive care, on the brink of death.
Had she known more than she let on?
She heard voices outside the entrance to the kitchen and as she got closer, she saw her mother and Nicola, involved in an intense conversation in the foyer, just inside the front door. They stopped talking when they saw her.
“Oh hi, honey,” Mom said.
Robin gave her a quick tight hug. “What did the doctor say?”
“Flying colors.” She smiled. “Just like I said.”
She exhaled. “Thank God.”
“And you know what? I think I’m starting to get my memory back.”
“Really?”
“When I was driving home, I had a sudden flash. Quentin Garrison in my kitchen. The gun in his hand...” She exchanged a glance with Nicola. “I was just telling Nikki.”
“That’s right.”
Robin turned. She leveled her eyes at Nicola. “When did you get here, Nikki?”
