The Stranger You Seek - By Amanda Kyle Williams Page 0,30

we were lying and we liked that too. There was no pressure to lift the mask. Neither of us really gave a damn what was underneath. And then the wine began to do its job, our eyes and minds were wandering, our knees touching under the table. He grinned at me. I was a sure thing, he was thinking. And why not? We’d already been half naked behind his pool house while his wife entertained guests a few yards away.

He put his hand on the table and scarcely touched my little finger with his, very discreet, but it shot through me like a laser. The blood was pumping to all the right places.

“Want to go somewhere?” he asked.

Oh yeah, somewhere in your mouth, somewhere in your pants.

“I’ll meet you outside,” I said, and left him with the check. His eyes burned into my shoulder blades as I walked out. I felt it. I felt his desire and his need.

Control that, David, you little creep.

I fell into a sweaty, disturbed sleep that night. I had gone directly from the blowout at Southern Sweets to the War Room and hadn’t eaten again. White Trash wanted to sleep on my legs. I felt trapped. I think I remember seeing her flying off the bed once. One of my feet might have been responsible for this, that and a hot flash. Christ, is it time for hot flashes already? Forty wasn’t far away but that seemed young. I wondered if my biological mother had had them, if she’d transitioned early and easily or if she’d knifed the father I’d never known during a hot flash and wound up in jail. It was really the only time I thought about them, when I had some question about our medical history. I wasn’t emotionally devastated by the fact that they’d given me up. They did it because they were incapable of caring for a child. I mean, with the prostitution and stripping and drugs and all, they were really busy. I guess I was a little pissed I’d grown up on cheese grits and gravy instead of the soy protein that might have helped me glide through hormonal shifts, but generally I had been incredibly blessed by their handing over their child. It might have been their one totally unselfish act in life.

I made coffee and poured honey and sliced nectarine into a container of Greek yogurt. I called Rauser while I dressed for an appointment. Still no leads on David, he told me, sounding grim and tired.

I wedged the Impala into a garage adjacent to SunTrust Plaza at 303 Peachtree and walked to the light at the corner of Baker Street and Peachtree Center Avenue. Crossing Peachtree Center without the light was just a little more excitement than I wanted. Hell, I’d grown up in the South, had a mighty bout with alcohol, and married an actor. Why tempt fate further?

I passed empty tables and chairs at sidewalk cafés and glanced through windows at packed bar stools. In the spring and fall, the street was lined with full tables and chatter, martinis and iced coffee and espresso. Not today. No one wanted to sit in the heat and humidity and the code-red smog alerts in business suits on a workday. And no one wanted to become the target of a serial killer whose selection process seemed so terrifyingly random.

I walked through the revolving doors at 303 Peachtree, grateful for the cold air-conditioning. Atlanta has some extraordinary office towers, with lobbies and elevators of mahogany and Italian marble and crystal, hand-woven rugs and stunning original art. SunTrust Plaza was one of them, and was famous for its occupants too—mostly big-money law firms and investment bankers. Because its fifty-three floors of gleaming blue glass and a center poking through tiers of jagged lower floors happen to sit on an elevated piece of real estate between Peachtree Street and Peachtree Center Avenue, it plays a very significant role in the city’s skyline.

I stepped into one of the mirrored elevators, inserted the key card that would allow me to access floors 48 through 53, all of which belonged to the law firm of Guzman, Smith, Aldridge & Haze, my biggest client and the people who essentially bought the groceries and paid the mortgage every month. I checked my reflection. Not bad—Ralph Lauren in banker blue, professional, with a crisp white shirt. It probably wouldn’t get me a date, but it said that I care, that I am serious about