I’d seen twice now, and, feeling a twinge, wondered if there was a connection. “Washington, DC?”
“No.” She paused, then whispered, “505. Santa Fe.”
“New Mexico?” I asked in surprise. I don’t know why, but I had always imagined her having come from somewhere north.
“Oh, yeah. I don’t know what the hell to do, Maggie.”
“Have you called Jay?”
“What can Jay do?”
“Tell the police you’re being harassed.”
“Like I can ever tell them why?”
“Even if it’s a matter of life and death?” I didn’t know all the details, but the little she had told me sounded dire.
She sighed. “Oh, God.”
“Call Jay,” I insisted. When she didn’t reply, I said more gently, “I’ll be staying at the Inn with my mother. I’ll call when I’m back.”
“Yup. Bye.” She ended the call.
I looked at Edward, who didn’t take his eyes from the road but asked, “What is life and death?”
“Like I know?” I asked, frustrated. Grace could be dramatic, but something in my gut feared that this drama had teeth.
“That”—came my mother’s voice from the backseat—“being the woman whose boy is accused of hacking?”
I turned. She was sitting up, fully awake, definitely curious. The good news was that she looked better than she had when we’d arrived that morning. Whether it was from the food we had made her eat, the effort she had taken to clean up and dress, or just the fact that she had gotten out of that depressing old house, I didn’t know.
“Grace is a friend.” I was hesitant to say much. My mother was not prone to liking my friends. But Edward was right about being honest and drawing her into the loop. So I added, “A good friend actually.”
“Who is her ex?” she asked.
“I don’t know.” But I was worried.
“He’s in New Mexico?”
“Apparently. This is the first I’ve heard of it.”
“How can that be, if she’s a good friend?” Margaret asked and, yes, there was a touch of censure. Funny, though, it didn’t shake me. She just didn’t know how things worked.
“Devon collects wounded spirits,” I said, smiling at my own melodrama. “I don’t mean paranormal, just a kind place that lets people be who they want to be. It’s forgiving in ways the rest of the world is not. I have no clue where half the people were before they came to town, and I wouldn’t ever ask.”
“So they don’t know who you are.”
“A few do. Most don’t. I needed to be someone else when I first came.”
“And now?” she asked—and oh, I had set myself up for that. A broken hip hadn’t addled my mother’s mind. Pain pills or not, she was astute.
I met Edward’s eyes for a beat, before returning to her. “I still do. I’m different today from the person who drove that car.”
“Do you like this new person?”
I considered my job, my cabin in the woods, my pets, my friends. “Actually, I do,” I realized. I hadn’t just fallen into an accidental life, but had actively chosen something better. “The challenge—” I paused, trying to decide how best to express it, “the challenge is reconciling the good from the past with what I have now.”
Margaret seemed stricken. “I was not the good after Lily died.”
“You were grieving.”
“I was even worse when your father died. That wasn’t your fault.”
My throat tightened, then quickly eased. It wasn’t an apology, exactly. But it certainly implied forgiveness for his death.
“No,” I whispered. “Not my fault.”
Wanting nothing to dilute the relief I felt, nothing to spoil the moment, I looked down at the phone in my lap. Seeming on cue, the screen lit. Area code 202. Washington, DC Again. Something in my gut was saying I should know who it was, but for the life of me, I couldn’t come up with a name.
So this time I answered. “Hello?”
“Maggie Reid?” The voice was strong and resonant, definitely familiar, although I couldn’t place it, either.
“Who is this?”
“Benjamin Zwick.”
22
I caught my breath. Of course. His voice held the same assertiveness, the same arrogance it had in the interviews he had given when the scandal first broke.
“Why is Benjamin Zwick calling me?” I asked, repeating his name into the phone for the sake of Edward, who shot me a worried glance and mouthed speakerphone, which I quickly turned on.
“Because”—Zwick’s voice filled the car—“I’ve been trying to reach Grace Emory, and I can’t get through. You’re her friend, right?”
My hackles rose. I wasn’t about to say anything to a man who had gone after a fifteen-year-old boy in such a loud and vengeful way.