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He leans closer. “Do the police have any leads?”
“No.” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “Despite tearing Kit’s house apart for clues. Crazy, right?”
“They aren’t equipped to handle this sort of thing—they’re more into white-collar crime and petty break-ins.” An inspired smile settles over his features. “Youshould look into it. You’d probably do a better job.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I mumble, though he’s right. I’m good at getting answers and facts. Good at noticing when people are lying.Good at making the police tell me more than they should. But all at once I feel exhausted and confused. Seeing rumpled, fuck-it-all Paul Woodson in a country club is about as unlikely as seeing a shark in a kid’s backyard swimming pool.
“So wait, how doyouknow Greg?” I ask.
Paul sips his beer. “I was his ghostwriter.” Noticing my blank stare, he clarifies. “Greg wrote a medical column for thePittsburgh Post-Gazette; he hired me when it got picked up for syndication, since I live close. The guy is great at deciphering blood-work numbers and repairing an aortic valve, but he needed someone to translate that into laymen’s terms.”
“Oh.” I sneak another peek at Paul. He has grown handsomer since high school; he’s still lanky, his jaw is still sharp, but his chest has filled out, and I like the flecks of gray at his temples. Then something hits me. “Youlivehere? Near... Aldrich? You movedhome?”
Paul jiggles the ice in his glass. “I was living in New York City, but then I got divorced, and... it’s a long story. So yep. I’m back home.”
A waiter passes with a steaming buffet tray of pasta; the smell of the vodka sauce makes my nostrils prickle.Et tu, Paul?I think. Of course my teenage crush would wind up only a few miles from where he went to high school.Everyoneends up back here, even hot punk-rock guys destined for greatness. It makes me sad. But more than that, it makes me really uneasy. No one has left. Around every corner, someone might know me andremember.All at once, I need to get away. Likereallyget away.
I shoot Paul a watery smile. “I should probably find my sister. But it’s been really nice to see you.”
Paul looks chagrined. “How long are you going to be here? Can I give you a call?”
How long have I waited to hear those words? But it feels like too little, too late. “I’m heading back to the West Coast soon. But drop me a message on ‘The Source’ website, okay?”
I snake through more people, elbowing a woman in a black maxi dress so sharply that she breathes in a gasp and shoots me daggers. It takes me an agonizing three minutes to find Kit, though when I do, she is blessedly alone. I scuttle up and slide in next to her. “Hey,” she says, brightening at the sight of me.
“I need to get out of here,” I say bluntly.
Kit places her empty glass on the bar. “I’ll find the girls.”
She reaches for her handbag so happily that I almost don’t clarify. “Actually, I mean get out of Pittsburgh. There’s a flight leaving for LA tomorrow morning, and I need to be on it.”
Hoots of laughter explode across the room. A sudden, sharp smell of a cigar wafts into my nostrils. Kit has frozen. “You’releaving?”
“Work needs me.”
“B-But you just got here!”
“I didn’t, actually. I’ve been here for three days.”
The muscles around Kit’s mouth tighten. “Oh geez. Three days. Of course. I’m sorry I’ve taken up so much of your time.”
“Kit, I’m sorry, but—”
“I mean, whatever; my husband’s murdered, my kids are traumatized, I still could go to jail for it, but hey, three days of casual conversation and hiding out in your hotel room most of the time seems about the right level of support.”
“I haven’t been hiding in my hotel room!”
Kit swishes her hand. “Whatever, Willa. You do you. Like always.”
“Kit...”
Kit pretends to be interested in the baseball game on television. “Why do you hate me so much, anyway?”
I step back, feeling slapped. “I-I don’t hate you!”
“It sure feels that way. You always can’t wait to get away from here. Fromme.”
“That’s not true.” I start to dismantle a bar mat into little chunks. “How about you come to LA instead?”
