"Tell me about it. Not yours, I mean. But I swear my purse gets heavier every day and I can't figure out why.” They shared a knowing grin as Sarah slung the purse strap over her shoulder, gathered her courage and walked out to face the music.
Blackwood raised his big ass off the chair in a semblance of courtesy and said, “Thank you for meeting me, my dear."
Sarah barely acknowledged him, concentrating on sitting down, hanging her purse from the chair and opening the buttons on her coat. She didn't take it off; she didn't plan to be here that long. Blackwood stared at her intently. She took a nervous sip of water as he started talking.
"So, tell me, Susan,” he began. She flashed him an angry glance and he backpedaled immediately, pretending to be flustered. “How silly of me. Of course, it's Sarah now, isn't it?” He smiled ingratiatingly. “I do understand your desire for secrecy, you know. The glare of the camera can be exhausting.” He waited for Sarah to respond, to comment on their shared misery perhaps, but she remained silent, sipping her water and counting the threads on the table cloth. “Well, then,” Blackwood said, filling the silence. “I wonder how you came to be working with the vampire on this matter? I wasn't even aware you were in town and believe me, I have excellent sources."
"I told you, Mr. Blackwood—"
"Edward, please."
"Mr. Blackwood,” she repeated firmly. “Mr. Gregor is a friend. Nothing more.” And probably not even that anymore, she thought to herself, feeling an unfamiliar ache in her chest at the thought. “We were simply having dinner together when you saw us."
Blackwood's cheeks flushed and his mouth tightened in obvious irritation, but he shifted tactics, saying, “William is quite convinced the vampires are behind it, you know. But I'm not so certain."
Sarah looked up at him. “You don't think there are any vampires involved?"
"No, I—” Blackwood began, but then gave her a curious look and leaned forward conspiratorially. “Unless you have something to tell us? I've always felt the police would do well to listen to what you have to—"
"I don't have any knowledge—"
"Don't play games with me,” Blackwood snapped, any semblance of friendship disappearing in an instant, replaced by hard intent. “I understand why you haven't gone to the police,” he said. “The idiots wouldn't know a true talent if it bit them in the ass. What I don't understand is why you've chosen to throw your lot in with those disgusting blood drinkers. If you're having dreams—"
"Those dreams were years ago,” Sarah insisted. “I don't do that any—"
"This is bullshit!” Blackwood nearly shouted. The room around them was suddenly quiet. Blackwood drew a deep breath and sat back with a broad smile, smoothing his ruby-colored tie over the bulk of his gut and waving off the maitre d’ who was looking their way anxiously. He took a long drink of his wine and patted his mouth prissily with the neatly pressed napkin.
"We both know what you're capable of,” he said in a low voice, that phony smile once again firmly planted on his broad face. “So, don't insult me by pretending otherwise."
"What is it you want from me?” Sarah asked tightly.
"What I want is whatever you know about Patricia Cowens and this entire affair."
"I told you. I don't know anything and I don't want to know anything. Do you have any idea what they put me through back then? The police treated me like a murderer and my parents thought I was crazy. They institutionalized me, Edward. I've spent the last ten years doing whatever it takes to forget this so-called gift and nothing you say will change that."
Blackwood regarded her with a smug smile. “Nothing? Well, Susan, I'm quite certain the tabloid press would be thrilled to discover that their favorite teenage psychic is alive and well and living right here in Buffalo. Why, I imagine it would make the front pages for weeks if you turned up. You'll be right alongside the two-headed cows and Elvis. And, of course, the tabloids are all over the Internet now too, aren't they? What do you suppose your University colleagues would make of that?"
Sarah sat rooted to her chair, her heart in her throat, watching the last ten years of her life go a little further down the drain with every word from Blackwood's mouth. She'd been so wrong about Raj. He wasn't a monster. He wasn't even close. The real monster was sitting across the table from her in this elegant restaurant, a smug smile on his fat face that said he didn't give a damn about her or anyone else.
"Your refusal to face the truth of your talent is a loss for the entire human race,” he was saying. “A true loss. And, may I say, selfish on your part. Surely you owe it to—"
"I don't owe anyone anything,” she managed to whisper. “Least of all you.” She grabbed her napkin blindly, laid it on the table and shrugged the strap of her purse over her shoulder. She scooted her chair backward to stand, but Blackwood placed a firm hand over her arm on the table, holding her in place. “Now, Sarah, I don't think either of us—"
"Director Blackwood?” She looked up to see a woman bearing down on them, middle-aged and wearing enough jewelry to feed a small village for a year. “It is you! I'd heard you were in town—"
Blackwood was on his feet in an instant. “Of course, my dear, and what a delight to see you.” The woman took his arm, turning him away from the table as she called to someone across the room. Sarah saw her chance and made a break for it, all but running from the restaurant. She passed the wide-eyed maitre d’ and shoved her way past a trio of matrons who gasped at her rudeness. Like she cared.
She almost fell down the stairs in her urgency to get away. There was a big, black van parked right in front of the restaurant, and some part of her registered the valet arguing with the driver as she ran past. But she left it behind, along with the curious looks of the suited executives and iPodded teenagers she shoved out of her way. She took a shortcut through a reeking passage between two buildings, dashing around trash cans, nearly tripping over a homeless person who muttered angrily as she disrupted his afternoon nap. She reached her car, keys in hand, thankful for the remote to beep open the doors, because she didn't think she could have gotten a key in the lock with her hands shaking the way they were.
Once inside her car, she locked all the doors and leaned her forehead against the steering wheel, trying to think. She'd have to run. Get out of Buffalo, out of New York. Everything she'd built over these last years would be gone—her career, her education—none of it would matter now. She'd start all over again. She'd saved some money, enough to last her a year if she was careful. A scrape of sound had her sitting up quickly and looking around. No one there, but she shouldn't be sitting here in the open like this. She drew a deep breath and started the car. The car at least was hers, free and clear. She'd paid cash for it, one less thing for her to worry about, one less trail to lead them to her.
She drove out of the parking lot and headed for home, knowing as she did so that by tomorrow, she wouldn't have a home any longer.
Sarah turned onto her street, driving past the duplex and around the block to park in the alley. A worn fence with a rickety gate opened from the alley to the scruffy back yard she shared with Mrs. M. There was a padlock on the gate, but it was on the inside and it hung open most of the time. Neither one of them spent much time back here, except to take out the trash. Sarah fumbled with her key ring as she crossed to the house, trying to remember which one opened the back door. She'd never used it before, but she was sure Mrs. M. had given her a key when she first moved in.
She found the right key and shoved it into the lock, slipping inside and closing the door behind her. Her first thought was to check every shutter and curtain downstairs, closing them all before hurrying upstairs to drape towels over the uncovered halves of her bedroom windows. It was dark with the windows covered, so she turned on a few lights and walked from room to room taking inventory. There was really nothing in the way of furniture that she couldn't leave behind. Maybe she'd done that unconsciously over the years, never buying anything that meant something to her. Maybe a part of her had known this day would come when she'd have to abandon everything once again.
In her study, she opened a small safe tucked into her lower desk drawer. Her passport and a spare driver's license were there, although she'd need a new ID before long. Credit cards would be the easiest way of tracking her, so those would have to go right away. She swiveled her chair around and logged onto the computer, going to her bank's web site. With a few key strokes, she'd transferred all of the funds from her checking account into a separate account under her maternal grandmother's name. Gramma Maude was long dead and wouldn't mind. Sarah had been her only granddaughter and they'd been close. She'd died before everything fell apart, which was probably a good thing. In any event, the account wouldn't remain open long. Eventually, someone—the press or the police—would trace the transfer. But by then the money would be gone, withdrawn in cash from banks or ATMs on her way to wherever she ended up.