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“Yeah. But not really a diary, more of a food journal. Like a diet tracker.”
“A diet tracker?”
“I know; kinda weird.”
“Whose is it?”
“I have no clue. There’s no name in the notebook but I’m assuming it belonged to one of my old clients. A very disturbed old client.”
“Do you recognize the handwriting or anything at all about it?”
“Nope. I think it’s a woman’s writing, but that’s it. But the writings in it… I don’t know, there’s just something about it that gives me the creeps. I can’t put my finger on it.”
“Did you tell Mark?”
“No.” I shrug.
Emma stares at me, sympathy pulling her face. “Amber, talk to me. Just get it out.”
I feel an instantaneous sting of tears, the kind that bubble up and are impossible to control. The kind that seem to come out of nowhere, a space buried deep in your psyche where emotions go to die. Except they don’t die, they release like a flood when you finally enter a safe space.
Emma leans forward and grabs my hand. “Oh, Amber, I am so sorry. Honey, cry if you need to, who gives a shit? I’m sure you’re not the first person to cry in a Mexican restaurant.”
I sniff, swipe the tears with the back of my hand. “Dammit,” I mutter, “I’m so embarrassed.”
“Don’t be. You’ve got a lot going on right now. You’ve got a scary situation with your son. Something unknown, not understood. And your marriage is… well, awful. It’s okay to cry. And, like I’ve suggested, it’s also okay to visit with a divorce attorney, just to understand the process, should it come to that. Listen, I know someone. I’ll send her a message and just put some feelers out there. See if she can work you in.”
I suck in a breath, shake off the tears. “Yeah, I think… I think it’s time.”
“Good. Just take a little step, and see how it feels.”
SEVENTEEN
ROWAN
“It’s four-thirty, time for the call,” Kellan reminds me, closing the passenger-side window.
“Yep,” I say, distracted. “You ready?”
“Yes—no, wait.” Gently, Kellan takes my chin, turns my face away from my email and says, “Take a deep breath. We’ve got this.” I close my eyes, melt into the butterflies that only he can give me, and then take a deep breath.
He smiles, pulls away. “Now we’re ready,” he winks.
After taking an inhale to steady my thrumming heart, I secure the phone into the dashboard holder and dial into the conference call I’d emailed to the team an hour before. The meeting is meant to serve as an opportunity to touch base on the Alyssa Kaing homicide.
The cab is silent as Kellan and I wait for Evelyn and Hoffman to join the video call. I don’t worry about them seeing us together; they know Kellan has been assigned to shadow me practically everywhere.
An image of the conference room pops up on the phone, followed by Evelyn’s ruddy, smiling face and Hoffman’s trademark frown.
“Hi, guys,” I say. “Is it just you two in the room?”
“Affirmative,” Hoffman says. Evelyn nods, flipping open her daisy notebook.
“Great. Okay, let’s start with Chris. Give everyone an update.”
“I spent over four hours walking the Kaings’ home, double-checking the locks, the windows, looking for tire tracks, anything that might indicate a break-in. There is nothing. From my assessment, whoever killed Alyssa either had a key—like the neighbor does—or the doors of the home were unlocked and the assailant walked right in, which, in this neighborhood isn’t hard to imagine.”
“Agreed,” I say.
