Truth, Lies, and Second Dates - MaryJanice Davidson Page 0,19
Danielle’s murder, she had told herself it was over. She did it again at the one year mark, the two year mark, five, eight, ten: years spent satisfactorily observing that everything was under control and it was definitely over.
Hokey as it was, she understood and was facing it now: it would never be over, no matter how far she flew.
WRONG.
She closed her eyes, but could still see the staggered, dirty-gray lettering on the wall, the accusation in Danielle’s ashes for everyone to see.
“Captain Capp?”
And there was Tom again, looking as delicious as he had last night, though he was absently rubbing his knee. She assumed that was why he’d yelled.
Now, as she had last night, she found him quite striking. Ever since she saw a buff Patrick Stewart in a tank top (Star Trek: First Contact—both her parents had been exuberant Trekkies), she’d equated bald with brainy/sexy. In particular, bald on purpose.
She realized she’d been staring at him without saying anything. “Oh, it’s Captain now?”
“It’s whatever you’d like,” he replied coolly.
“Why’d they call you?”
He smiled a little. “They know I like the odd ones.”
“Oh.”
“You followed me here.”
“Yes.” He didn’t seem alarmed or angry. He just looked at her and waited. And when she didn’t elaborate, he added, “You have some questions for me.”
“Actually, I think you probably have some questions for me.”
“Come with me,” he said, which should have been annoying—so perfunctory!—but really, it was comforting to have something to do. There were hierarchies everywhere, in particular her job (and perhaps his?) and sometimes knowing where everyone was supposed to be was … was nice. She didn’t know why.
She followed him out of the waiting room, down a hall bare of everything but nameplates and an exit sign, and into a surgically neat office, presumably Dr. Thomas Baker’s office, according to the sign.
“So.”
“Yeah.”
“You were a witness. Ten years ago, not last night.”
“A piss-poor one,” she admitted. “I never saw a thing. By the time I got back, she was—it was over.”
“It must have been difficult.”
Worst. Small talk. Ever. “I—yeah. Just a smidge. And then ten years roll by and suddenly it’s like it happened yesterday. Like it’s still fresh.”
“For someone, it is fresh.”
“Yeah.” Because he was right. Someone had been pissed about the murder. Or the memorial. Or both. Then, “Son of a buggering switch?”
Tom flushed red. Which shouldn’t have been adorable, but was. “Ah. I hit my knee when I heard you come in. I apologize. I’m trying not to use profanity around my niece.”
“I think buggering is profanity.”
“No. No?”
“Have you been to the United Kingdom? Pretty sure it is.”
“Then it goes on the list at once,” he replied, and to her surprise he extracted a small notebook from his shirt pocket, produced a pencil from somewhere, scribbled a note, put the pad away.
“Huh.”
“Yes.”
“You take that pretty seriously.”
“She is insanely precocious and no one wants another Cokesucker incident.”
“Yes, that makes sense.” Then they just eyeballed each other as the silence stretched.
What are you doing?
Stalling so we can keep talking? If I stand here like a dummy long enough, maybe he’ll tell me about the Cokesucker incident.
“Would you like to meet for breakfast later today?”
“Wh-what?”
“In a professional capacity,” he said quickly, because of course he meant a professional capacity and was she trolling for dates now? Clearly their relationship was going to be purely business going forward, which was a good thing, a very good thing, a thing she richly desired, so it was fine. Everything was fine. “I’d like to do some more research and ask you some follow-up questions.”
“Okay…” Something was off. They’d only been speaking for a few minutes, but he was bouncing from kind to businesslike and back again, like he couldn’t make up his mind how best to deal with her.
Who cares? Talk to him. Spill your guts! He might help you think of something, he might find something that jogs your memory or—or—look, it’s preferable to moping in your hotel room, isn’t it?
It was.
“Ten thirty?” she asked.
He nodded. “The Black Dog? Down the street?”
Yes, because nothing said “time to mourn and then get back to getting on with the rest of your life yet again” like a specialty espresso sipped in a hip coffeehouse across from a medical examiner who was trying to cut back on the profanity.
“Absolutely,” she said. “Yes.”
So it was done, and she left Dr. Tom Baker to it (he’d gotten up to walk her out, banged his knee on the corner of the desk again, and yelped “crap on a