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“Well, yes, but it’s barely made a blip on anyone’s radar.”
“What’s the book about?”
Delta drew a breath. “It’s a . . . thriller.”
“And in one of the first scenes, the wife stabs her husband.”
“You’ve read it?” Delta asked, her heart clutching.
“Just know about it. Give me a recap.”
“Well, my main character’s been abused by her husband, so she takes matters into her own hands. She . . . stabs him to death, and then basically gets away with murder. It’s not autobiographical.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Okay. Other people have read your book. The police are going to know about it. I’m going to read it.”
She nodded. Her throat was hot.
“Let’s leave it for now. Just start talking to me. If there’s anything I should know that makes you look bad, bring it out into the daylight.”
The knife ...
“What?” Amanda asked, reading her expression.
Delta tried to tell her. She closed her eyes, gathering courage. But what came out was a blurt. “Were you even ever pregnant?”
Amanda sat back in her chair. Delta held her breath, wondering if she’d blown it; she really, really hoped she hadn’t. Finally, Amanda leaned forward again. “I thou
ght I was, but probably not.”
Silence fell between them, then Delta drew a breath and started in.
Chapter 21
McCrae looked at his phone, checking the time as he entered the third bar on Portland’s west side where Tracy Gillup had once worked. He asked to see the manager—Jimmy, he was told—who was in his twenties and sported a shaved head and the kind of hard body achieved from weight-lifting that looks like it barely fits in a shirt. McCrae started talking the talk, discussing working out as if it were his life. Jimmy immediately sought to one-up him, bragging about how many pounds he could press.
“You sure you don’t have any information on Tracy Gillup?” McCrae put in.
“Sorry, man. This place sold three months ago. I don’t have any records before that.” His gaze slid away, and McCrae determined he was lying about something.
“Maybe you could get me a beer?” McCrae didn’t really feel like drinking, but he had some time before he was meeting Sutton. He pointed to one of the taps, and Jimmy directed one of the guys behind the bar to help him before he scooted into the back room.
There were several waitresses, but two had dark, almost black hair, and one was a bleached blond. No medium brown and no braids, but then it had been five years since Bailey’s death, and Tracy could have certainly changed her hairstyle.
He nursed his beer and thought about Tanner Stahd. Someone had stabbed him using a knife that was handy. No premeditation. After hours, though, so their meeting had been clandestine, but maybe not on purpose? Delta was coming to the clinic . . . did whoever was there know that? Was she meant to take the fall? Or was it just the heat of passion? A spurned lover . . . ? Which didn’t look good for Delta.
There was no theft, as far as anyone could tell, so it didn’t seem like drugs.
Jimmy came out once more and looked around, his eyes sliding back and forth. He didn’t like having McCrae there. It was in his body language. He disappeared into the back once again.
McCrae was finishing his beer, deciding he didn’t have time to find out what was making Jimmy so anxious, when a guy at the end of the bar yelled at the short-haired blonde, “Giddyup, bring me another Cadillac margarita, no salt.”
McCrae stared at the blonde, who signaled to the guy that she’d gotten his order. He’d only met Tracy Gillup once, and he wasn’t sure, so he said, “Tracy?”
She turned and looked at him. “Yeah?”
Jimmy came out of the back like a shot, as if he’d been listening, which he probably had. “You don’t have to talk to him,” he told her. “He’s a cop.”
Tracy gave him a bored look. “You ain’t my dad, Jimmy,” she said, then turned to McCrae. “What do you want then?”
