Eric’s reasons for being there could have been innocent, even though he’d claimed to be working late on all three nights. The woman could have been a fellow producer. She could have been a source. But.
When Robin had oh-so-casually mentioned Chez Chas a monthafter the last sighting, told him she’d heard good things about the food, Eric had gulped so hard she could see his throat moving. He’d told her he wasn’t sure if the place lived up to its rep, or even where it was located, because, he claimed, he’d never been there before.
It’s the past. Shut the door and move forward.
“Yes.” Eric rolled over onto his side, his gaze resting on her face. “Yes. You can trust me.”
The door was shut. Locked. Robin put her shirt back on, slipped her purse off the back of her chair, keeping her gaze connected to his. The old, faded Polaroid was in the side pocket—the skinny young girl in the too-old-for-her halter top, flashing the “I love you” sign. Holding the gun.
Robin pulled it out and handed it to Eric.
He stared at the photo. Straightened up to sitting. “Who is this?” he asked.
“My mother.”
“Are you sure?” he said. “It’s so blurry.”
“I’m positive.”
He held it away at arm’s length so it caught the light. “That’s a toy gun, right? She’s trying to act like... I don’t know. Charlie’s Angels or whatever.”
“I have no idea what she’s trying to do.”
“Why are you showing me this?”
“Because I need to tell you about a call I got four days ago. I need to tell you about a podcast producer.” She told him everything, all the way through to that morning, the notes from her father, the research she’d done.
When she was through, Eric said, “You didn’t show Quentin Garrison that photo, did you?”
“I only spoke to him over the phone, so no.”
“Good.”
She heard herself say it out loud for the first time: “Do you think my mother is April Cooper?”
“No.” He said it in that voice of his, that power-of-positive-thinking, will-it-and-it-will-happen voice that had been driving her crazy for the last couple of years. But at this moment, she found it comforting. “Absolutely not.”
“You’re not just saying that?”
“It’s a toy gun. April Cooper was a crazy teenager who died in a fire more than forty years ago. I remember that stupid TV movie. She was nothing like your mother.”
Robin looked at him. “Your mother let you watch that movie?”
“It was a TV movie. Why wouldn’t she let me watch it?”
Robin winced. She looked at Eric. “I think Quentin Garrison got to my dad.”
“What?”
“That day. It must have been that same day. My dad had his phone number written down, along with some other names... I found it at their house. I think Quentin Garrison asked him if my mom was April Cooper. And I’m wondering... what if Dad confronted her about it?”
His eyes widened. “Did you say that to the police?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“Why?”
