“Court this afternoon,” Moore says, noticing Olivia’s confusion. “Your husband’s here.”
Park strides through the door, and Olivia launches herself at him. He catches her in his arms and holds her close, head bent to hers. He is warm, and smells of cedar, and bleach of some sort. She feels safe for the first time in hours. She doesn’t understand herself, these wild swings of emotion. Love, or habit?
“I’m so glad you’re okay,” he says quietly.
“Me, too. I didn’t realize there was any danger at the time. I just want to go home. Can we?” she says to Moore.
“In a few. We want to chat a little more. With another woman missing, the case has obviously taken a turn. Things are moving quickly. We’d like to clear up a few more loose ends.”
“We’re done here, Joey, if you want to use this room,” the artist says. “I can give this to Will and let him get started running down this guy.”
“Thanks, Roger. Appreciate it.”
Joey. What a cute name for a girl, Olivia thinks, cataloging it in her mental filing cabinet of baby name possibilities almost without realizing she’s done it. Park grips her hand as if he knows exactly what she’s thinking. Your fault. She tries to ease her hand from his, but he holds on tight.
Moore gestures to the chairs and nods to Roger when he pauses at the door. He smiles at Olivia and closes it almost tenderly, the latch a gentle click in an otherwise hectic morning. Olivia blows out a breath and sits, still clinging to Park’s hand. Under the hawkish eyes of the cop, his grip no longer feels oppressive, but strong, warm and comforting.
They always did do well under pressure, the two of them. She glances at her watch; she has an hour before her therapy appointment. Maybe he’ll agree to come. They have been through a lot today. Together is the key. Them against the world. Maybe they are salvageable.
She ignores the little fish nibbling at the edges of her thoughts, a twenty-year-old vision of tangled limbs and fogged windows.
Perry is coming…
“Mr. Bender, we’re looking into connections between Beverly Cooke and Jillian Kemp.”
“Connections?”
“Unfortunately, yes. Mrs. Kemp is one of the mothers who chose you as her donor.”
Olivia’s hand jerks away convulsively. “You have to be kidding me.”
Park seems dazed, listening to the cops tell him they need to control the message and go to the media before they run with the story, until his face goes red and he starts shaking his head.
“You want to out me as the donor for all these kids? No way, Detective. I’m not ready to have this made public knowledge. My God, I’ve only known about it for a few days. I don’t even know how I feel about it, and you want to announce it to the world along with the news that a killer is targeting the donor mothers? No. No way. There’s a local reporter already hounding me. This will make it all worse.”
“Who?” Moore asks.
“Erica Pearl.”
“Ah. All right. I understand where you’re coming from. We can circle back to that in a moment. There’s something else I’d like to talk with you about. Chapel Hill.”
Olivia sees the Adam’s apple in Park’s throat bob. “I don’t see how that’s relevant to this situation.”
“We spoke with Melanie Rich’s mother this morning.”
Park flinches at the name. She can’t blame him. It was so hard on him when Melanie was killed. It was the first thing he told her about when they got back together. Halfway through their first date, he blurted it out. “I had nothing to do with that girl’s death. I want you to know that.”
“I didn’t think you did,” Olivia had replied mildly, setting her hand on top of his bigger, rougher one. They were in a lovely Italian restaurant downtown, more expensive than either of them could afford at the time, him on his TA stipend and her still in design school, but he’d been so intent on impressing her that she’d said yes immediately. “Your roommate was a horrible person. I’m just so glad the police figured out it was him.”
She remembers how relieved he was. Of course he was telling her the truth. Park didn’t have that kind of violence in him. His was more contained. More subtle. The razor’s edge instead of a sledgehammer.
Now, though, he’s gone quiet at the mention of Melanie’s name. Quiet enough that the cop notices, and sits forward, just a touch.
“Mrs. Rich gave us permission to exhume Melanie’s body.”
“Why would you do that?” Park demands, and Olivia puts a cautioning hand on his arm.
“There was a discrepancy in the blood work in her case. At the time, emotions were running high, and Mrs. Rich held back some information. She was trying to keep Melanie’s reputation intact, to make sure her father wasn’t shamed. Since Melanie was dead, she didn’t see any reason to share.”
“Share what?” Olivia asks, dread building in her gut.
“Melanie was pregnant when she died. Or so her mother claims. Did you know?”
Park’s face is going red again, and she squeezes his forearm to send a message—stay cool.
“No,” he manages. “I didn’t.”
“There wasn’t an embryo reported on the autopsy, so we don’t know if the coroner down there missed it or what, but her blood work did show an elevated hCG level. It was sloppy for them not to at least take an embryonic tissue sample and do a paternity test to make sure the DNA matched Peter Johnson. That’s a slam-dunk motive for murder, in my mind, but it never came up in the case. Anyway, we thought we should do our due diligence, and go for that sample.”
“That’s horrible,” Park chokes out. “Why would you do that? It won’t bring Melanie back.”
“No, it won’t,” Moore says. “But it will put my mind at ease. It’s just so strange, all these years later, a murder so similar, tied so closely to you. We’re already rerunning the DNA from Melanie’s case to make sure we don’t have another match in the system. I guess I want to see if Peter Johnson is the daddy. Curiosity more than anything else. I’m just one of those who likes to cross the t’s and dot the i’s. So, anyway.” Moore stands, adjusting the holster on her hip. “I have to get going. I need to be in court. But with all that’s happening, we really should go ahead and start talking with the media, letting them in on this situation, or they will be relentless. I can arrange for you to sit down with them, both of you, and you can tell them what this has been like. I know you’re being torn apart with worry over this, and now that someone’s breaking into your places, you need—”
“What we need is a lawyer,” Park says, and the finality in his tone makes the cop sit back down in her chair and cross her arms, a brow hiked to her hairline. “No. I won’t go along with this until I’ve had a chance to discuss the situation with counsel.”
Olivia leans over to him. “Park, maybe the detective is right. We’ve been targeted already. We’re the victims here, just as much as Beverly was, and Jillian might be. Just as much as your children. And now someone’s broken into both our workplaces. Add in that the police—” she looks sharply at Moore, who smiles blandly at her “—are dragging up the Melanie Rich murder, this is getting out of control.”