to discover if there was any truth to his dire warnings suddenly seemed like a very wise investment.
CHAPTER 44
Was it stupid and foolish to meet with a potentially dangerous man?
That was the question on Nina’s mind as she sat down across from Hugh Dolan. She didn’t know anything about him, not even how he got here, or where he came from. Did his drug addiction make him impulsive, desperate? Did he plan to take her by gunpoint to the ATM for another withdrawal? She’d found him where he said he’d be, in a booth in the back of the Bar and Feather, a speakeasy-themed restaurant in downtown Seabury. Nina had picked this meeting spot because it always drew a sizable crowd even in the early afternoon. Simon was coaching robotics after school, so running into him wasn’t a concern.
The first thing Nina noticed was the look of surprise on Hugh’s face when he set eyes on her, as if something about Nina’s appearance startled him.
Even though the restaurant was dimly lit, the curtains drawn to keep out sunlight, Nina didn’t need to see well to know that Hugh Dolan lived a hard life. He looked like his mug shot, but in person his narrow face was more weather-beaten. His skin had no color save for pockets of acne that stuck out like constellations of red stars. Gray streaks ran through greasy hair that fell to his shoulders, and the odor of cigarettes was noticeable from across the table. His arms barely filled out the faded jean shirt he wore. Despite his appearance, to Nina’s professional eyes he didn’t give off vibes that he posed any physical danger. Then again, she knew the lengths some addicts would go to for their fix, so she refused to dismiss the possibility outright.
Hugh ordered a whiskey shot with a beer chaser from the black-clad waitress. Nina asked only for a glass of water.
He studied Nina through sunken, hooded eyes, saying nothing for a time until she got the unspoken message. From the wallet she kept in her monogrammed Coach bag, Nina produced five crisp one-hundred-dollar bills. She slid them across the table to Hugh, who counted the money twice, folded the bills carefully in half, then stuffed them in his shirt pocket. After the waitress came by with their drinks, Hugh took his shot, ordered another, and downed half the beer.
“You got this, right?” he said.
Nina heard the steely edge to his voice, casting fresh doubts on her earlier supposition that he wasn’t prone to acts of violence.
“Yes, I’ll cover the tab,” Nina said, correctly guessing his intent. “But you’re not driving, are you?”
She hated how nervous she sounded, wary he might exploit any weakness on her part. Hugh smirked knowingly.
“I can handle myself,” he said. “You look like her, you know that? Your hair mostly.”
Reflexively, her hand went to her head, forgetting for a moment she’d dramatically altered her appearance.
“I look like who?” she asked apprehensively.
“Like Emma.”
Nina’s heart sailed to her throat. Now she understood the look of surprise when he first set eyes on her. She hadn’t thought that Hugh might bring a picture of the elusive Emma Dolan, but now she prayed he had.
“Do you have a photo of her?” Her voice was barely above a whisper. Perspiration prickled her forehead.
Hugh took out his phone and tapped the screen before presenting Nina with an image of a smiling woman, sitting on a rock at the ocean.
“Happier times,” said Hugh a bit wistfully.
She saw a vague similarity in their faces, Emma’s being thinner and longer than Nina’s, her nose less pronounced, but the hair was unmistakably the same—a bob with straight bangs and swept sides. A pit opened in Nina’s stomach. It was unsettling to gaze into the face of her near-doppelganger, a dead one at that, but what did it mean?
“I see the similarities, but lots of men have a type,” Nina said, feeling a sudden urge to be protective of the man she still loved.
“True,” Hugh said. “But Simon Fitch isn’t like lots of men.”
Nina stiffened in her seat. This was the true purpose of her visit: to find out if there was any truth to Hugh’s alarming claims. She probed his eyes, studied his body language, searching for any of the telltale signs of deceit she was trained to recognize. Seeing none, she again studied the picture of Emma Dolan, a woman in her forties with a haircut from a different era.
“What do you mean by that?” she asked.
Hugh