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“Only if they’ll add a shot of Baileys or Irish whiskey to it,” she said, and sent him a look. “Not kidding.” And then she turned her gaze to the intersection, where a young mom was pushing a stroller with one hand and holding on to the mittened hand of a boy of four or five with her other hand. They disappeared in front of the pickup and she glanced to the corner, where a guy dressed in a red Santa suit was ringing a bell and collecting donations. He was shouting “Merry Christmas” and “God bless you” and “ho, ho, ho” ad nauseam. Man, she hated this time of year.
Closing her eyes, she told herself she just needed to hang on, to pull herself together, to do anything but lose control.
By the time they reached Tate’s loft and were inside, she was calmer, and it helped that he had taken her at her word by making them each a cup of coffee and adding a healthy pour of Baileys Irish Cream to the brew. No whiskey. She was seated on the couch, Rhapsody at her side, as he handed the steaming cup to her and she accepted it, her fingers trembling slightly before she took a long, mind-calming swallow.
That was better.
So much better.
The warmth of the coffee and the tingle of a little whisper of booze did wonders for the quivering she felt inside.
After grabbing a second cup for himself, he flipped a dining chair around and straddled it in order to face her. “So? What’s the big lie?” he asked, sipping from his cup. “We did have a deal, you know. We’re in this together.”
“Yeah, yeah.” She took another big swallow. The alcohol helped calm her frayed-to-the-breaking-point nerves. Being here, out of the police station, eased the tension, but still she was anxious and nervous, felt confined, like a damned caged animal. She needed to get out. Get away. Dosomething. “As I said, I’ve been getting calls,” she admitted, and took another big swallow. Then she set the cup down, found her fingers were a little more steady and unlocked her phone. Scrolling through a few calls from reporters and police, she found the voice mail and played the short message that had been left in the thin, papery voice, “She’s alive.”
“Before you ask, I don’t recognize the voice, nor the numbers.”
“Probably a burner phone.”
“Right. There’s more.” She showed him the text messages, then picked up her cup and drained it before leaning back on the cushions.
“Who would do this?”
“I don’t know.” She stood, leaving him with her phone, walked into the kitchen area, brewed herself a second cup and added a healthy shot of the Irish Cream while Tate scrolled through the messages on her phone.
He was absorbed by her phone and she felt a prickle of indignation that he was reading other texts, personal messages. She started across the room to demand it back, then thought:Why? Who cares? There’s nothing in there that is all that personal. And Merritt is dead. Killed.
“Who’s Brad?” he asked.
Using the spoon he’d left on the counter, she stirred her coffee. “My most recent ex.”
“He’s still texting.”
She frowned. “Forgot to block him.”
“Your Aunt Faiza seems concerned.”
“Talked to her.” She was loosening up but still irritated as she, sipping from her cup, returned to the sofa.
“Tell me about the interview with the police,” he suggested, handing her back her phone.
Tucking the cell into her pocket, she sat on the edge of the couch, sipped her drink and told him everything she could remember, forcing herself to dismiss any lingering doubts about confiding in him. She needed an ally—even one who might not be the most trustworthy, one who openly admitted his own agenda for seeking the truth. What did she care what his motives were? Was he going to write a tell-all that would expose more of her to the world, strip her of . . . what? Her privacy? Her anonymity? Her pride? Hell, it had all been said before and now,nowthere was a chance Marlie was alive.
So she told him everything she could remember, about her life and what she’d said in the interview. There were holes of course, those empty spots in her memory that she couldn’t retrieve, but she bared as much of her soul as she could. Kara explained that Detective Thomas had shown her a computer-enhanced image of an older Marlie, a picture of what Marlie would look like today. “That’s when I knew for certain that I’d seen her. At the hospital.” Kara stared hard at Tate, hoping to make him believe her. “I tried to get to her, but she disappeared before I could reach her.”
“Again,” he said. “She disappearedagain.”
“Yes.” She took another swallow of coffee.
“And you’re sure it was Marlie?” He was skeptical.
“Of course!” she said so loudly that Rhapsody lifted her head and gave off a startled “woof.”
Reality settled in. “I mean, I thought I was . . . seeing that picture of what Marlie would look like now, but . . . no, I’m not sure. Not a hundred percent. I’m not sure of anything right now. The woman looked like her, I mean really looked like her, but she was all bundled up and wearing tinted glasses and I thought, afterward, maybe I was imagining things. I mean, why would she be there? After all this time? Had she been in hiding just to wait to see Jonas? It didn’t make any sense and sometimes I imagine things, you know.”
“Such as?”
“That I’m being followed, or someone’s watching the house or whatever. I’m never not on edge, you know?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Anyway, after seeing Marlie at the hospital, I’d told myself to file it in the Just-Another-Kara-McIntyre-Freak-Out file, but then Detective Thomas showed me the computerized picture. Now . . . now, I don’t know what to think. Just that this has to end. Before I go completely insane.
