As it happens, I’ve recently met some people in the state police.”
He lifted an eyebrow, and his mouth tilted. “Is that a joke?”
“Maybe.”
There it was again: the smile, the unexpected flutter. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll go.”
“Good.”
“But I’ll wait a day in case you change your mind.”
“I won’t.”
“Here. This motel.”
“Adrian—”
“It’s a lot of money, Liz. You can have half of it. No commitments. No strings.”
She held the gaze for a lingering moment, then rose to her toes and kissed his cheek.
“That feels like good-bye,” he said.
“That was for luck.” She took his face and kissed him long on the lips. “That’s the good-bye.”
* * *
The drive out was hard. She told herself he’d be fine, that he’d manage. But, that was only half the problem. She tasted the kiss, the way he’d kissed her back.
“You barely know him, Liz.”
She said it twice, but if knowing was in a kiss, then she knew him pretty well—the shape of his mouth, the softness and small pressures. He was just a man, she told herself, a loose end from the distant past. But her feelings for him had never been that simple. They showed up in dreams, lingered like the taste of his kiss. Even now they worked to confuse her, and that was the thing about childhood emotions: love or hate, anger or desire—they never stayed in the box.
* * *
It took time to leave the low country and cross the sand hills, heading west. By the time she reached the center of the state, she’d channeled the confusion into a narrow space behind the walls of her chest. It was an old space, and her feelings for Adrian filled it from long practice. Life now was about the children and Crybaby and what remained of her career. So she took a deep breath and sought the calm center that made her such a good cop. Steadiness. Logic. That was the center.
Problem was, she couldn’t find it.
Everything was the kiss and wind and thoughts of her hands on his skin. Adrian didn’t want to stay locked away. She didn’t want him locked away, either.
“Pull yourself together.”
But she couldn’t.
The carousel was turning: Adrian and the kids, Crybaby and the basement. Whom was she kidding when she said life could go back to what it had been?
Herself?
Anyone at all?
When she crossed the city line, she stopped at a strip mall to replace her cell phone. The clerk recognized her face from the papers, but didn’t say anything about it. His finger rose once. His mouth opened and closed.
“I don’t need a smartphone. Cheapest thing you have as long as it calls and texts.”
He set her up with a flip phone made of gray plastic.
“Everything’s the same? Passwords? Voice mail?”
“Yes, ma’am. You’re good to go.”
She signed the receipt, returned to the car, and sat beneath blue sky and a pillar of heat. Punching keys, she called voice mail. Seven were from reporters. Two were from Beckett and six more from Dyer.
The last was from Channing.
Elizabeth played it twice. She heard scraping sounds and breathing, then three words, far and faint but clear.
Wait. Please. Don’t.
It was Channing’s voice. No doubt. Faint as it was, the girl sounded terrified. Elizabeth played it again.
Wait.
Please …
She didn’t hear the third word that time, disconnecting the phone instead and gunning out of the lot. Channing would have bonded out by now—as wealthy as her father was, there could be little question of that—but where would she go?
Elizabeth called Channing’s cell phone and, when she got no answer, steered for the rich side of town. Her father’s house had tall walls, privacy. He’d want to keep her there and buttoned down. Maintain control. Avoid the media.
The last part was a joke. Elizabeth saw the news trucks from two blocks out. It wasn’t the A-list talent—they’d be at the church or the station—but it was a lot of energy, even for a double killing. It was the optics of race and politics, of torture and execution and Daddy’s little girl. No one recognized Elizabeth until she turned for the drive, then the shouting started.
“Detective Black! Detective!”
But, she was through the line before anyone got organized. Fifty feet up the drive she hit private security. Two men. Ex-cops. She recognized them both. Jenkins? Jennings? “I need to see Mr. Shore.”
One of the men approached the car. He was in his sixties; wore a decent suit. A four-inch Smith rode his belt. “Hey, Liz. Jenkins. Remember?”
“Yeah. ’Course.”
He leaned into the window, checked the seats, the