Alex did, but she wanted to argue anyway. She wanted to shout that she had waited all her life to learn who her father was, and because of their rules she would have to wait hours more.
But she suspected they wouldn’t care. And that she would come off as the crazy woman she so feared becoming.
“Of course,” she said, getting to her feet. “I’ll do it now.”
Her thoughts raced with what Tim had revealed. He knew something about her father. He had known for some time.
And he hadn’t told her.
How did she wrap herself around that? Tim, more than anyone, had known how much finding her father meant to her.
Alex opened the locker but didn’t make a move to stash her phone. She stared at her neatly folded garments, the liquid relaxation of earlier little more than a memory.
Her mother “blamed him for Dylan.”
What did that mean? There were many reasons to place blame. For real sins-and imagined ones. Did that mean she thought he’d abducted him? If so, surely she would have gone to the police. A bad man, Tim had said. Really bad. A liar Alex had needed protection from.
Screw this, she decided. Relaxation was the last thing on her mind. Instead of stowing her cell phone, she grabbed her clothes and dressed.
CHAPTER SIXTY
Tuesday, March 16
4:30 P.M.
Tim had beat her back to the rental, Alex saw. His candy apple red Chrysler Sebring sat parked in front, top still down. She had tried him twice since leaving the Kenwood; both times she had been rolled over to voice mail and neither time did she leave a message.
She parked behind him, climbed out and hurried to the front door. She let herself in, then stopped, surprised. The small dining table had been set with white linen and china. A bottle of champagne sat chilling in a bucket, two flutes beside it.
Went for food. Help yourself to the bubbly.
P.S. Don’t be mad. I have news.
Alex stared at the setup, bemused. The man was nothing if not a suck-up. He knew she was mad and intended to coax her out of it. He’d even provided the opportunity for her to get started doing that without him.
She crossed to the champagne and poured a glass. She’d have a little surprise for Mr. Clarkson when he returned. No way was he going to wiggle off this particular hook.
She carried her wine out to the front porch to wait. And wait she did. Ten minutes became twenty, became thirty. Where was he? There were a number of good restaurants within walking distance. Which one had he chosen? She dialed his cell and found that he still hadn’t turned it back on.
She let her breath out in a short, frustrated huff. At this rate, she’d be drunk before he returned with the food.
No doubt, that was his plan. Tim didn’t like emotional scenes. That’s why he’d called when he had-thinking he’d leave a message and avoid the messiness of a face-to-face.
There would be no avoiding it, she thought. She would drill him until she knew every detail of what her mother had told him. She wanted the when and where, the date and the circumstances.
And she wanted to know how, under any circumstances, he could have thought it was okay to keep the information from her.
Wineglass empty, she stood and went for a refill.
Meowing, Margo darted out of the kitchen. “Hey, girl,” she said and scooped her up. Purring, the cat nuzzled her shoulder.
“Tim’s in big trouble, isn’t he?” she asked. “He’s a big traitor.”
Margo meowed again, leapt out of her arms and onto the linen-covered table. “Margo, no! Off the…”
The words died on her lips. Margo had left paw prints on the linen. Alex shifted her gaze to the wooden floor. A trail of prints led from the kitchen to where she stood. She lowered her gaze to her shirtfront. Her white, long-sleeved T was smeared with red.
Blood.
She stared at it with a growing sense of horror. And denial. No, wine. Margo had toppled an open bottle. She had done it before, while she and Tim had been married. Not blood, she thought again. Wine.
Blood wine. The sharp smell of sandalwood stung her nose. Her glass slipped from her fingers, hitting the floor and shattering. A thrumming filled her head. Light… flickering… blood…
A scream, high and terrified. Hers. She ran toward the kitchen, pushed through the door. She slipped, landing on her hands and knees in something. Blood, she saw.
She shifted her gaze. Tim. On the floor, on his back. Something shiny sticking out of his throat. Chopsticks, she saw. The ones he had given her.
She crawled the rest of the way to him, sobbing, praying it wasn’t too late. She placed her hands on his chest, over his heart. Nothing. She pressed her ear to the spot, then her fingers to his wrist.
Nothing… nothing… Dear God…
Alex backed up, sobbing, hysterical. She became aware of her own voice, her repeated pleas. She was covered with blood, she realized. It was everywhere. Her hands and hair. Her clothes.
No… no… Whimpering, she tried to rub it from her hands, but it only smeared more. Her fault, she thought. She’d brought Tim into this. If not for her-
What to do? She dug her phone out of her pocket, dialed 911.
“Help,” she whispered, when the dispatcher answered. “Please. Tim’s… he’s been… stabbed. I think he’s… Oh, my God, he’s dead!”
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
Tuesday, March 16
5:45 P.M.
When Reed arrived, Alex sat huddled on the floor, Margo on her lap. Her hands, face and clothes were stained with blood. She stared blankly ahead.
A deputy stood nearby. Reed met the man’s gaze with the briefest nod, then crossed to Alex and squatted down in front of her. “Alex, honey. Are you okay?”
She blinked, as if seeing him for the first time. “Reed,” she said. “What are you doing here?”
“You asked for me. When you called 911.”
Her gaze shifted to a point behind him. The kitchen, he thought. Location of the victim.
“He’s dead,” she said. “Tim’s dead.”
“Yes, I know. Are you all right?”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Can I get you anything?”
“No.”
He heard Tanner and Cal arriving. “I have work to do now, but I’ll be close by. If you need anything, including to talk to me, just ask Jim here.” He pointed to the deputy, who nodded in acknowledgment. “Jim will get it for you.”
Reed stood and exchanged another glance with the deputy. He understood his duty: do not let her out of his sight, even to go to the bathroom.
Cal had gone on to the kitchen to inspect the victim; Tanner waited behind for him. When he reached her side, she murmured, “This is complicated for you.”
“I know what I have to do.” He heard the edge in his voice and regretted it. He was the one who was out of line, not Tanner.
“Do you?”
She held his gaze. He worked to control a rush of anger. He wasn’t even certain who he was angry with-her, for questioning his professionalism; or himself, for being in this mess in the first place.
He leaned toward her. “Yes, dammit, I do. Just give me the chance to process the scene and question her, then I’m out.”
“Agreed.”
They moved into the kitchen, careful to step around a puddle of blood. The first responders had done their job: secured the scene, established the outer and inner perimeters and isolated the suspect.
Cal had already begun photographing the scene. The Coroner’s detective would take their own shots and would need to do it before the body was touched in any way.