Friday, November 21, 12:15 p.m.
“You don’t seem to be hungry today,” Grant Garrett said.
She stopped moving the meat around on her plate and set down her fork. “I guess not.”
They sat by themselves inside the cafeteria at a table on the stairway landing that led to the second level. Employees who usually claimed the area for daily socializing saw who was seated there and gave them a wide berth.
She felt his gaze weighing on her. She turned her eyes from her tray to the main floor below them, where people wandered between the food stations and chatted at tables.
“Hey. I’m over here.”
She looked at him, feeling awkward. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to ignore you.”
“You seem distracted lately,” he continued. “Anything you care to talk about, Annie?”
She forced herself to look into his eyes. “No. Not really.”
He put down his coffee cup, dabbed his lips with his napkin. “A man, then.”
It caught her by surprise. She opened her mouth to deny it. Then sighed.
“I’ve been seeing someone, yes. For a couple of months.”
“From the look on your face, it doesn’t seem to be going well.”
“It’s not.”
“Fixable?”
“I hope so.”
“Need a little time off?”
“No. Absolutely not.”
“Don’t get defensive. I was just asking. We seem to be at a bit of a standstill, anyway, so maybe a break might do you some good.”
She shook her head. “I’ll be all right. Really.” Time to change the subject. “Have you had any fresh thoughts?”
He knew what she meant. He raised a gnarled forefinger, tapped his gray temple. “The answer’s in here.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I know the answer to this, Annie. I know that I know it. I’ve felt it for months-that I have all the pieces to figure this out. But I’m still not putting the pieces together right.”
“Maybe we should brainstorm some more. Go over everything we know, try-”
“No, we’ve done plenty of that. We’ve been trying consciously to force all the puzzle pieces to fit. But I’m thinking that’s going about this the wrong way. Maybe the better way is for us to give it a rest for a little while, let it simmer. I think the answer is sitting here in my own skull, in my subconscious. Something tells me it has to do with a past operation. There are times when I feel I almost have it. Like something you sense in your peripheral vision. Then when you look straight at it, it vanishes, like a ghost.” He folded his napkin neatly, placed it back onto the tray. “Maybe I’m the one who needs the break. I should take a few days off, visit friends or something.”
“That doesn’t sound like the Grant Garrett I know. You’ll ruin your reputation.”
“It couldn’t get any worse.”
Bethesda, Maryland
Friday, November 21, 8:05 p.m.
Trust.
Her wipers swept intermittently to clear the windshield of the light drizzle and the spray from the cars around her. She gripped the wheel tightly, trying to stay alert for unexpected maneuvers by the crazy drivers on the Capital Beltway. They were even crazier in the rain.
But it was hard to concentrate.
Trust. The word had haunted her since her first conversation with Cronin. That’s when the doubts had begun.
Or had they?
Be honest with yourself. It was before then. And you know it.
She recalled their first date. When, sitting across from each other in the Italian restaurant, they had talked about his fears, and hers.
“I would hope that someday you might trust me.”
“You mean: You would hope that someday you might trust me.”
“I guess we both have some trust issues.”
No, this mess didn’t start because she hadn’t trusted him. It began when she realized that he couldn’t trust her.
It began when she saw what he’d written about her father. That’s when she finally admitted to herself that she’d been hiding from him who her father was. That’s when she knew she was living a lie.
When you realized you were a fraud.
She braked for a traffic light. Waiting for it to change, she gathered her resolve.
Tonight, the deception would end. She had to trust again. And she had to make herself trustworthy, too.
She would tell him the truth. About her father. And about her job.
He deserved to know everything. He had to know-whatever the cost.
Then, she would ask him to reveal the whole truth about his own past. If they were to continue together, she deserved to know that, too.
And after that, they would see what they could salvage.
“Well. What are we going to do about this, then?”
“Maybe we can work on our trust issues together.”
“All right…Dylan Hunter.”
Yes, Dylan. Let’s try.
She hadn’t told him she’d be coming tonight. Somehow, it would be better if she just showed up, unannounced. She hoped he’d be there when she arrived, but if not, she’d wait. She glanced at the overnight bag on the passenger seat. Wishful thinking?
“We’ll see,” she said, aloud.
*
She made the sharp left onto Wisconsin and headed north, approaching his high-rise. About a block ahead, in front of his building, she noticed a man crossing Wisconsin, right to left. He wore a dark hat and raincoat. In the middle of the street, he broke stride with a funny little skip-hop, then began to run to avoid oncoming traffic.
She caught her breath. She couldn’t remember exactly when she’d seen him do that little hop-maybe while they were out at dinner one night-but it had imprinted somewhere in her memory. She watched him run easily, then leap a puddle, graceful a gazelle, to reach the sidewalk.
Damn. If she didn’t hurry, she’d miss him.
She turned into the street beside his building, pulled into the curb, and hit the four-way flashers. Then she jumped out and ran after him, awkward in her heels, dodging traffic to cross the broad highway.
He had about a thirty second lead and had disappeared down an alley between two buildings. She ran after him, emerging on Woodmont Avenue. She halted and spun, bewildered. He had vanished. There were no open stores or restaurants-only two parking garages on opposite sides of the street. Not there. Dylan had reserved parking for his Forester beneath his own apartment building, so he wouldn’t need to-
But then she spotted him, trotting up the glassed-enclosed stairwell of the garage on this side of the street. Before she could shout, he turned off the fourth-level landing and disappeared back inside the garage.
Maybe she could still catch him.
She ran to the pedestrian entrance of the garage, then up the stairs as fast as she could manage, cursing her heels with every step. By the time she reached the third-level landing, she heard a car engine rev somewhere above. Figuring that she might intercept him as he descended past her, she yanked open the stairwell door, emerging into the parking area.
Then saw that the car exit ramp was all the way at the other end of the building.
She ran toward it, but was only halfway there when the vehicle whipped into view around the descending curve in the distance.
It was not the Forester, however. It was a white pizza delivery van. It rolled quickly around the ramp and down.
She stopped, not bothering to shout. That couldn’t be him, he had to be upstairs yet. She might still catch him. She began to run again toward the exit ramp. She arrived about thirty seconds later, gasping, her ankles aching and toes screaming from the narrow shoes. She paused and listened.
Nothing but the sound of her own heavy breathing.
Apparently, he hadn’t even started his car yet. She began to relax. He had to come down this way, so she would definitely connect with him, now. She walked up the curving ramp to the fourth level. Then paused again to catch her breath and scan the parked vehicles.
She heard nothing. Saw no one. Saw no car that looked like his Forester.