I was missing something. Going from friendship to “I’d change my life for you” required a few steps in between, and unless I was doing a lot more than walking in my sleep, we’d skipped all of them.
“I . . .” I steeled myself and looked right at him. “I don’t want you to change anything, Jack. I am completely and absolutely fine with what you are and what you do. Nothing you’ve said, nothing you’ve done, nothing I could find out is going to change that.”
He studied my expression. I kept my gaze on his, letting him look. There was nothing to hide. I meant it.
“I could,” he said. “I would.”
“And I’d never ask it or expect it. You’re not me. I don’t want you to be. I want you exactly the way you are.”
Was it possible to be any clearer? Short of grabbing him by the jacket and pulling him onto the bed? But he just sat there, his face expressionless. Then, finally, he eased closer, his legs rubbing against mine, leaning over and . . .
And nothing. He stopped there, legs pushed against mine, hands on his knees, leaning forward as if he was going to . . .
Hell, I have no idea what he was going to do. Or if he was going to do anything at all. He was just there, so close I could feel the whisper of his breath, the weight of his gaze, and I had no fucking idea what he was planning to do or what he wanted me to do.
He was waiting for a sign and what I’d said wasn’t enough. He needed me to be absolutely clear.
I should do something. Lean forward. Reach out. Do something. Do anything.
That was the problem, wasn’t it? He wouldn’t make a move until he was sure. I couldn’t make one until I was. One of us had to take a chance, risk personal humiliation and a very awkward extrication if we’d misinterpreted—
Jack’s phone buzzed from his rear pocket.
“Probably Evelyn,” he said.
“Probably.”
“But maybe not. It’s my . . .”
“Your work phone. I know.” I paused. “You should check it.”
“Right.” He pulled the phone out and glanced at the screen. Then he looked at me. “Not Evelyn. Work.”
“Okay.”
“I should . . .” He glanced down but still made no attempt to answer.
Don’t. Just forget it. Return the call later.
He looked at me. The words died in my throat. He glanced away.
“Should get this,” he said and answered, rising and taking the call out of the room.
Well, if he’d wanted to distract me, he’d succeeded. I was no longer hopelessly confused over what happened twenty years ago. I was hopelessly confused over what was happening now.
I reached down and picked up my duffel. My laptop was inside. I got it out and started doing research on Aldrich’s trial.
I was immersed in an article when I felt a faint draft on my shoulder and looked up to see Jack in the doorway.
“Hey,” I said.
He only nodded and stayed there. I tried to read his face. Impossible, of course. If he didn’t want to show me anything, I didn’t see anything. Which was a big part of the problem, I guess.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
“Yeah. Just work.”
“Do you need to take off?”
“Nah. Nothing like that.”
“So I should move my ass,” I said, closing the laptop. “We have a long drive.”
He shook his head. “No rush. Just didn’t want to interrupt.”
Of course. I’m sitting here wondering what deep and meaningful thoughts you’re contemplating, and you were just trying not to interrupt me. Fuck it. I give up.
I closed the laptop and reached for the bag.
“Said no rush.” He moved into the room. “Something about Amy’s case?”
I nodded. He motioned for me to open the laptop up again and sat beside me on the bed. Sitting with a good foot between us. Keeping his distance. Ah, shit, now I was starting to sound like him, too.
I rubbed my palms over my eyes.
“Nadia?”
I feigned a yawn. “Sorry. Just hitting that midafternoon slump. Reading on-screen doesn’t help. We should hit the road—”
He opened the laptop and swiveled it to face me. “You were reading something interesting. Could see it. Keep going. I’ll grab coffee.”
He took off before I could protest.
CHAPTER 32
“Caffeine and sugar,” Jack said ten minutes later, as he set two coffees and a bag of candy on the nightstand beside me.
I smiled and let that last bit of annoyance slide away. The moment had passed. It would come again and maybe we’d do better. For now, if he was bringing me candy, all was fine.
I grabbed my snack, and we went into the other room. I took up position on the sofa. He sat next to me, closer this time, though not as close as earlier. Which I wasn’t going to think about.
“I’m not ready for that file yet,” I said. “But I thought baby steps might help. I’m looking up references to the case. There’s not a lot because it happened pre-Internet. With Aldrich’s death and confession, there’s some regional media attention, but it doesn’t delve very far into Amy’s case. For that, what I’m finding is mostly secondary references. So I’m following this trail of bread crumbs, which lead me to . . .” I clicked a link, skimmed the first few lines, and grinned. “A primary source. Thanks to the library system and the power of technology.”
It was a series of scanned local articles from the time of the trial. I was still skimming them. There were pieces on Amy’s death, on the arrest, on the pretrial hearings, and then, finally, on the trial itself where—
I stopped. Stared.
“Fuck,” Jack murmured.
I glanced over. “So I’m not seeing things?”
“If you are? I am, too.” He glanced around. “Where’s your camera?”
I dug it out of the equipment bag, turned it on, and flipped through until the viewer showed the photo I wanted. The best shot of the guy who’d presumably killed Drew Aldrich. Then I turned back to my laptop. The black-and-white photo was grainy, the scanned resolution less than ideal, but there was little doubt of what we were seeing. A photograph of Aldrich’s killer . . . in an article on Aldrich’s court case.
It was a group shot. Three men, one woman. Two of the men strode along in front. Older men, in their forties or fifties. The other two—a guy and a woman—looked in their early twenties and hung back. All four were dressed in suits and carried briefcases.
My gaze dropped to the caption under the picture: “The defense team arrives at the courthouse.”
Aldrich’s killer had been part of his defense team. Did that make any sense? No. Add the fact that the guy had been driving a car rented by the Contrapasso Fellowship, and I was completely flummoxed.
“Makes no fucking sense,” Jack said. “Aldrich spots you. Calls his old lawyer. Could see that. Long time, but whatever. Except he’s not Drew Aldrich anymore. And this guy? A Canadian lawyer? Shows up within hours. Acts like they’re old friends. Kills him. Pins the crime on him. The crime he helped get him off of. What the fuck?”
“I can see some logic in the last part,” I said. “Maybe he felt guilty, having played a role in letting a killer walk?”
“Fucking lot to lose if he’s caught. Considering he killed him.”
“There’s the rub. And the Contrapasso connection doesn’t fit at all.”
“Unless Evelyn’s wrong about that.”
“Maybe.” I saved the photo from the article. “No sense trying to figure it out until we have more information.”