He hooked a thumb toward the east. “Off Winchester. At the old church lot. I think it’s Lutheran.”
“Got it.” She took a right at the next cross street. “So why don’t you tell me why you wanted to see me? Oh, wait, let me guess! You want an exclusive interview with the girl who survived the McIntyre Massacre.”
“I thought we’d already established that.”
“Let’s do it again, just to be clear.” Again, she skewered him with a look that indicated she was pissed.
“It’s pretty simple. You and I have unique perspectives on what went down that night and we both suffered losses; both of our lives were changed forever. I think that not only could I write the definitive story about the massacre, but also, if we worked together, we might actually find out what happened. The details are murky and we were just kids at the time, and both of us think justice was never served, right? You don’t believe Jonas killed your family. You still think there was an intruder. You’ve said so. And I’d like to find out what really happened, not just for curiosity’s sake, but because my old man died, too.”
Her lips tightened a bit, and a hint of guilt shaded her eyes. “But then there’s the money,” she pointed out as the church steeple came into view, a tall spire rising above the surrounding trees with their skeletal branches, black limbs seeming to reach to the sky as if in supplication.
“Yes.” No reason to lie. “Then there’s the money.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “We could work out some arrangement and—”
“Not interested.” She slowed for the final intersection, then drove into the icy parking lot butting up to the white clapboard church with its broad porch, now-closed double doors, and windows of stained glass.
His SUV had collected a dusting of snow, the windshield covered. He slipped on a pair of Ray-Bans and tried to come up with some other excuse to get her to see things his way, but he had nothing.
Kara drove into the near-empty lot and slid into a spot next to the RAV4.
Finally, he said, “I think we would work well together.”
“Oh, yeah, right,” she mocked. “We’d be great together. Just friggin’。 . . awesome!” She didn’t bother to hide the sarcasm lacing her words. As the Jeep rocked to a stop, she added, “We’re here.” She motioned to the passenger door.
“I’m serious.”
“No.” She shook her head. “No, you’re not.” Leaning across him, her body radiating heat, her breasts brushing his legs, she pushed his door open and a gust of icy air swept into the interior. “This is where you get out,” she said, straightening, her cheeks a little flushed. “Now.”
“Kara—”
“Now!”
He took the hint and slid out of her Jeep. This time he didn’t bother grimacing against any faux pain. She’d see right through it. He paused, holding the door open for a second, and said, “I just want to find out the truth, Kara. I thought, maybe, that you did, too. Maybe I was wrong.”
He slammed the door shut before she could respond, and climbed into his Toyota, started the RAV4, backed up, then rammed it into drive and spun out of the lot. Checking his rearview mirror where his father’s dog tags hung—a reminder of the man who had given his life for Kara McIntyre—he saw that she hadn’t made a move to leave.
Good.
Maybe she’d think about it.
Maybe deep down she really did want to know the truth.
He hoped to God she did.
*
The coffee wasn’t strong enough.
Not by a long shot.
Detective Thomas gulped the dregs in his cup and decided that this morning, there just wasn’t enough caffeine to keep him going.
Maybe there never was enough, Thomas thought, but he needed a jolt. Especially today. He left his cup on the kitchen counter, then headed to the bathroom, where he opened the medicine cabinet and retrieved a half-full bottle of modafinil. He held the small bottle in his hand, unscrewed the top and dropped a pill into his palm. As he closed the cabinet door, he caught his reflection in the mirror. Red eyes, deep crow’s-feet at the corners, tousled hair that seemed a little duller than yesterday, unshaven jaw that was still tight. He looked like he’d pulled an all-nighter.
Close enough.
To bed at 2:00 a.m.
Asleep by three.
Up at six forty-five.
And tossing back pills at seven o’clock.
Great.
This was not his usual routine. He usually was up earlier and worked out, but not today. He’d broken his self-imposed regimen for the first time in weeks.