The Stranger You Seek - By Amanda Kyle Williams Page 0,63

from the center of the roses. “And unofficially—what does that mean, Rauser? Because you needing my unofficial advice sounds to me like I just stopped getting officially paid.” I tore open the envelope, getting a nasty paper cut for my efforts.

“Now just hang on.” Rauser held up both palms. It was the only calming signal he seemed to know—palms up, body moving slowly backward as if he’d accidentally cornered a coyote.

A gift certificate from Goodyear tumbled out of the card. It was for a tire rotation and inspection. I sighed. I fully expected to see my father’s scrawl for a signature, but I was wrong.

Regular maintenance is so important.

Sorry to hear about the accident, but congratulations on your prime-time debut!

W.

20

Rauser and I barely spoke on the drive home. I was trying to shake off the news he’d flattened me with at the hospital—the investigative report, my ex-husband’s TV interview, Jacob Dobbs being hired to replace me now that I’d been officially removed from the case. Or was it unofficially? The two dozen white roses with the familiar W signature on the creepy card was the icing on the shittiest cake ever made.

My phone rang. Rauser kept his eyes on the road. “Guess what I got?” Diane asked me. “Reservations at Bacchanalia. We’re overdue for a good, dirty gossip.”

Bacchanalia is a five-star restaurant near 14th on the outskirts of Midtown and so far over my budget I need to stand on tiptoes, but Diane and I pool our funds and treat ourselves once a month, regardless.

I looked in the mirror at my cuts and bruises. “I still look awful.”

“Perfect.” Diane laughed. “I’ll pretend I’m your abusive lover.”

A couple of hours later, we sat down to the white linen tablecloths and low lights at Bacchanalia, which is great for catching up but does nothing to disguise the sucking sound created by the arrival of the check and the departure of our disposable income. And it’s worth every penny. One bite tells you the chef is in love with her craft. The menu is big and bold, seasonal and local, and the meals are four courses.

Diane ordered arugula salad, cured Virginia flounder with watermelon relish, ricotta cavatelli, and asparagus cake with lemon gelato. I started with the potato gnocchi, because when it comes to bad carbs, I like doubling up, and moved on to grilled snapper, a salad with Pecorino Romano, fava beans, and young fennel, and a blood orange soufflé for dessert—exactly what I wanted after fake eggs for breakfast, fake potatoes at dinner, and all the Jell-O I could hold at the hospital. I was starved.

A white-coated member of the waitstaff delivered a warm loaf of rosemary bread and sliced it at our table. Diane ordered an elderflower cosmopolitan for herself and coffee for me.

She listened intently as I told her about my feeling of being followed, about how I really wrecked my car, about the white roses, about how some TV muckraker was about to splatter my tattered record and disemboweled marriage all over Atlanta’s TV screens. Her drink came and she sipped it, blue eyes steady on me. She was wearing a wrapped linen jacket cinched at the waist with a black pencil skirt and patent pumps with ankle straps. Diane had never minded getting a little attention. And she was dressed for it tonight. Her blonde hair was short and tucked behind her ears, with little wispy sideburns.

“Do you feel safe?” she asked when I’d finished.

That’s why I loved Diane. Since we’d met at age six, she worried about me. I ran my knife over a mound of softened butter and spread it over the warm, scented bread. “I know this may sound strange, but I don’t think he really wants to hurt me. I think he just wants to scare me away.”

Our starters arrived and we dug in. The gnocchi was heaven.

“So enough about me,” I said.

Diane laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s always about you.” She drained her drink and signaled the waiter for another.

“So? Tell me about the new guy,” I demanded.

“It’s fantastic so far. Notice I have to qualify it? God knows it’s been forever.”

I chuckled. “Um, I think it was only like six weeks ago you dumped Brad.”

“Blake,” Diane corrected cheerfully. “What was that about anyway? He was so grungy.”

I nodded my agreement. “It was a look.”

“Great kisser, though.”

“You look fabulous, by the way. Is that Armani? You get a raise or something?”

Diane broke out her big white smile. “There’s more where this came