No way was she going to stay here even though she’d agreed to use his condo as a landing place, a spot where she could shower, change, and get her head together. Tate was, as they say, the only port in a storm.
A temporary port, she reminded herself as she dried her hair with a towel he’d provided, then after swiping away the moisture that had collected on the mirror mounted over a small, utilitarian sink, checked the stitches on her forehead. The flesh surrounding them was tender, but she’d survive, and she could part her hair and hide the tiny would-be scar that was probably forming. Makeup would help on her face, but she was stuck with the long bruise that had developed across her shoulder and down her chest compliments of her seat belt.
That discoloration would take weeks to fade.
Nothing she could do about that, and she didn’t have time to think about it as she pulled on a pair of clean jeans and an oversize sweatshirt. Then, still rubbing her hair briskly with the towel, she stepped barefoot into the main living area, a wide room with soaring ceilings, exposed pipes and windows that stretched along one wall and offered a killer view of the river where it bent back on itself.
She reminded herself again, this wasn’t a place to stay. Not at all. Just a quick landing spot where she could hopefully get her head together and screw up her courage so she could talk to the police.
When she was ready.
Whenever the hell that might be.
Rhapsody, though, had made herself right at home, even settling onto Tate’s bed with its navy-blue quilt and military-tight corners.
As she dried her hair, Kara thought of her own messy bed with its wrinkled duvet and wine bottles left on the nightstands in a cozy if messy bedroom. This huge, vacuous room was certainly at odds with that.
Tate didn’t seem to mind that the dog had pawed his pillows into a different position before curling into a ball and staring at him as he worked. He’d ditched the jacket and flannel shirt, but was still in a long-sleeve black T and battered jeans, his hair unruly. Leaning over the table, a cell phone jammed to his ear, he was staring at an open laptop, his eyes scanning whatever he was reading on the screen.
He didn’t look up but must’ve sensed she was in the room because he motioned with his free hand toward the kitchen area, where she spied a coffeemaker complete with pods for different flavors and types of coffee or tea or hot chocolate.
But no bottle of wine had been left open to breathe.
No bottle of vodka or whiskey set on a bar with an ice bucket and chilled mixers at the ready.
She told herself she didn’t need a drink, but a tiny voice inside her head insisted she was a liar.
Just a taste, it urged.
Come on.
Something to calm your nerves, that’s all.
No big deal.
However, there was no evidence of any liquor visible even though she took another quick look and scanned the shelves and countertops, mentally calculating where, if he had alcohol, he might stash it.
Since she couldn’t very well root through his cupboards, she settled on black coffee and eavesdropped as she took one of the cups set out, selected the strongest blend and pushed a button. As the water gurgled, steamed and streamed into the cup, she heard Tate’s end of the conversation. “Yeah, okay . . . text the addresses and phone numbers . . . That’ll work . . . We’re heading over to Margrove’s place . . . I know, but I called. She’s got copies. Digital . . . uh-huh . . . don’t worry; she’s no fan of the police.” A pause, then, “Yeah. Fine. Just make sure the addresses are still valid. Yeah . . . tonight. We need to get a jump on this ASAP . . . What?” A beat. “Right, right. Start with anyone still around. Face-to-face is best.”
The coffee machine had quieted. She picked up her cup and took a tentative taste, her stomach rumbling. God, when was the last time she’d eaten? She flashed on the wine and cheese and crackers from the night before.
It seemed like a lifetime ago.
Tate was still talking. “You got it. Confirm those who have moved. . . what?” A lengthy space where Tate listened, then grabbed a pen from a nearby cup used as a holder for writing implements and scribbled a note to himself on the already full first page of a legal pad. “Yeah, got it.” Nodding, Tate ripped the note from the pad, took a quick picture of it and stuffed the jagged yellow strip into a pocket. “Okay. Yeah. Keep me posted.”
He hung up and twirled his chair around to face her. “Better?”
“Marginally.”
“How’s the pain?”
“Manageable.”
He said, “I have ibuprofen.”