A scene runs through my mind: Gabriel has been arrested. He’s in one of those brightly lit interrogation rooms, like on the cop shows Papa Pete and I used to watch. There is nothing in this room but a table and some chairs, two mean and angry detectives on one side, Gabriel on the other. One of the detectives takes out a plastic evidence bag. He shows it to Gabriel. “Do you know anything about this?” He smirks when he says it. Inside the bag is my knife. “Your girlfriend had it hidden away in her things. What do you suppose she intended to do with it?”
Oh, Aurora Grace, if we are caught, I will lose Gabriel. They’ll show him the knife. They may even show him myletters to you. He will no longer stick up for me. He will never let me know where Jenny is. I’ll have no one and I will die alone.
We can’t get caught. We won’t get caught. We’ll keep moving forward and we won’t look back and I’ll never again think about what we’ve left behind.
Here’s what we have with us: The stolen prom dress. Ed Hart’s wallet, which still has some cash in it. In the trunk, a duffel bag full of Ed Hart’s things: clothes that don’t fit either one of us, some props from the shows he’d worked on, a decent-looking transistor radio, two stereo speakers, and a watch Gabriel says is expensive. Also in the trunk: a six-pack of Coke; two bags of Lay’s potato
Oh my God there’s a cop car following us. We just exited the freeway and he followed us off the off-ramp, a right turn, a left turn, and now he’s flashing his lights. Drive faster, Gabriel. Don’t look back. But he won’t listen to me. DRIVE FASTER GABRIEL PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE DRIVE AWAY!!!!!
We’re on a quiet street now and Gabriel is pulling over. The cop car pulls over too. It’s so dark outside, I can barely see my writing on this page. I ask Gabriel what he thinks he’s doing. He shushes me. He tells me to keep writing my song, which makes me feel sad for him. I am quiet and now the whole car is quiet. There’s nothing in the world but the two of us and the flashing lights and the slam of the police car’s door.
Gabriel just told me to get ready—I don’t know what for. I think of home, of Hollywood. Of anywhere but here.
Twenty-Two
Robin
MORASCO WAS ATRobin’s house less than twenty minutes after she called. As soon as he came through the door, she and Eric showed him the text. “I know who Quentin Garrison is, but I don’t understand,” he said.
They told him everything, starting with that first phone call she’d received at work, leaving nothing out—well, nothing as far as Quentin Garrison was concerned. The old Polaroid of Robin’s mother stayed hidden, as did any dim suspicion either one of them had that Garrison may have been onto something. Through it all, Morasco watched them, his jaw flexing—an attempt, Robin thought, to maintain a poker face.
When they were more or less through, Morasco said, “Any idea why he believed that your mother had a connection to April Cooper?”
Eric jumped in before Robin could say anything. “There was a video of her on Robin’s site back in May. It got a lot of views. Maybe it was something she said, the way she looked.”
“So... You think he could be obsessed?”
“Well, I’m not a psychiatrist.” Eric winced, looking at Robin as though maybe he shouldn’t have said it. “But you know... if I’d had Kathleen Sharkey for a mother and I believed there was someone out there who was to blame...”
“Yeah. I get it.” Morasco looked at Robin. “Can you do me a favor? Screenshot that text and email it to me?”
Robin did, Morasco staying long enough to make sure the email had gone through.
Once he left, Robin sat back down at the kitchen table. Eric came up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders, his thumbs resting at the base of her neck. “Do you think we did the right thing?” she said.
“No question.” His voice was firm. This was another thing about Eric, and it went hand in hand with the blind optimism. He never questioned a decision he made, whether it was the color swatches for their new kitchen or opting not to have kids or working for Shawn Labatoir or turning the cops on Quentin Garrison. Robin was more the type to agonize and second-guess, probably because she was an analyst’s daughter. “What if Garrison’s innocent?”
“Then the truth will out.”
She looked up at him with flat eyes. “Sure,” she said. “That always happens in law enforcement.”
Eric kissed the top of her head. “You’ve got to trust someone, Robin,” he said. “And given the choice between Nick Morasco and his partner...”
“Good point.” Robin closed her eyes, a sense of calm sweeping through her. It helped, right now, to see the world the way Eric did—without self-doubt, questioning nothing. She thought back to what he’d said to her at the emergency room, just before she got word that her father had died and her entire life came apart at the seams.You aren’t the only one who’s pissed people off.He had said it without elaborating. Hadn’t brought it up again and, as far as Robin could tell, hadn’t given it another thought. Who had he pissed off? Had it been professional? Personal? “Eric...”
“What?”
But she realized that she didn’t want answers from him, not now. She just wanted to be able to trust him, to lean on him a little. Let him have his secrets. It seemed like a fair trade. “I’m going to have a glass of wine. Do you want one?”
“Sure.”
Robin removed two glasses from the cupboard and got the sauvignon blanc out of the fridge. It had been a long time since she’d poured two glasses of wine. It felt good, as did the fact that he hadn’t checked his phone once—not one single time since they’d started dinner, and that was hours ago.
She handed him a glass, and he raised it to her. “To your mom’s full recovery.”
She smiled. Raised hers. “To new beginnings,” she said.
THE NEXT MORNING,Robin headed to the hospital after dropping Eric off at the train station. He was no doubt getting an earful from Shawn today for “leaving his post” (for someone who’d lied his way out of Vietnam, Shawn Labatoir was awfully fond of military phrasing) but, he told her, he didn’t care.
