Page 73 of Robert B. Parker's Booked

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“I doubt it will, but thanks.”

I said goodbye to them both.

I was about to get out of the car when Melanie Joan stopped me. “Sunny?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m going to ask you something, and I want you to be honest with me.”

“Okay.”

“Do you think I killed Leila Donnelly?”

I looked her right in the eye and told the truth. “Absolutely not.”

“Thank you,” she said.


I got out of the car. The whole way up to my office, I kept thinking about Melanie Joan’s eyes, how shattered they looked.

When I walked in, Blake greeted me. “Saw the news, and…What the fuck?” he said.

“That seems to be the question of the day.”

“How were the Connecticut police? Did they seem understanding?”

“Um. No.”

“That sucks,” he said. “Anyway, there’s a guy here to see you.”

He didn’t say this until I was opening my office door. This was Blake’s sole problem, as far as I could see—his habit of delaying important information until it was too late.

“What’s his name?” In order to drive home this teaching moment, I said it with my door wide open, when I was staring into the rheumy eyes of my visitor.

“Evan Woodrow,” Blake said. He was a smart kid, but some things he just didn’t get.

Thirty-six

“Ms. Randall, I need to talk to you,” Evan Woodrow said.

“You can just call me Sunny,” I said. “It’s one less syllable, so this will go faster.”

“I get it,” he said. “You hate me.”

I winced. “Hate’s a strong word,” I said.

The fact was, I felt kind of sorry for Evan Woodrow at the moment. He looked more of a mess than he usually did. His comb-over was mussed, his thick glasses scuffed and foggy. He wore a different suit than he’d worn the last time I’d seen him, and somehow this one looked even more frayed. Could it have been he was so upset about what was happening to Melanie Joan that he’d done away with what little attention he paid to his appearance?

At any rate, I felt bad enough for him that I closed the doorand offered him a seat. But not bad enough to ask Blake to bring in coffee.

“What brings you here, Evan?” I said.

“Melanie Joan.”

“I figured,” I said.

“I’m worried about her.”