Ten minutes later the lawyer emerged from the police station, fol owed closely by a limping Sean. Abigail rushed forward as best she could, throwing her arms around Sean. They held each other, hugging hard for what seemed like minutes, before Abbie led him to the car, holding on tight to him al the way. Moments later the car swept past, probably going directly to the closest hospital. As the car went by Hannah thought she caught a glimpse of Sean’s face, thought maybe he saw her too, before he was gone. Hannah pressed her head into her hands. She felt sick with guilt and apprehension.
After everything that had happened it was impossible to imagine going back to the apartment, to her place in the Project, and resuming her attempts to damage the case from the inside. She’d seen both sides of this war now, out in the cold light of day. Maybe Robert Parekh was not a paragon of virtue, but he wasn’t the dark side either. Up until the events of the night before she’d seen the Project as the establishment; seen them as self-satisfied and self-congratulatory and far too sure of themselves. That was wrong.
What they were was brave. What they were up against was so much more dangerous than she’d ever imagined.
Hannah had never gotten around to arranging for a rental car.
She’d have to take Sean’s—she could deliver it back to Charlottesvil e for him afterward and pick up her own from there. She would swing by the inn too, once she had the car, and col ect Sean’s things. If Sean had gone straight to the hospital, probably no one was thinking about the stuff he’d left behind at the inn. So she should pick it up. Maybe he’d see that as an invasion of his privacy, but she didn’t want any of his stuff left here, in this town, where Pierce or his goons might come and pick over it. And while she was waiting for the taxi she would cal Greensvil e prison. It was a Sunday. Not the easiest day to arrange a visit, maybe, but Dandridge’s preliminary hearing was so close now. The prison would surely not deny him a visit from his lawyer.
In the end everything went as planned and she was with him by lunchtime. The room was the same. Dandridge was, inevitably, wearing the same orange jumpsuit, the same glasses. They sat in the same seats. The only thing that had changed was that Sean wasn’t sitting there too. She felt his absence.
“Al alone this time?”
“I have some questions for you. Some background questions.”
Hannah tried to sound businesslike, focused. She had a pen and a notebook ready to go.
“Where’s Rob? Did you tel him I wanted him here?”
“He’s busy.” Hannah couldn’t bring herself to say more. How long would it take before he saw through her? Not long, probably, not if she started asking her questions. There was no truly convincing way to make him believe that questions about Bar Harbor, about her mother, had any connection to the Fitzhugh case, and she wasn’t even sure she wanted to try. But she couldn’t figure out another way to begin.
“I want to see him. Okay? I mean, I’m grateful and al , but I am his client. He needs to come and see me.”
Hannah said nothing and Dandridge fel silent. His eyes narrowed as he looked at her. She could almost feel his scrutiny.
“You said you want background. Is this for tomorrow’s hearing?”
“That’s right.”
“Don’t you think we’re a little late in the day for you to come looking for background? I mean . . .” He held out his arms in an expansive gesture and Hannah looked at the floor. She didn’t want to see the scar again.
“Have you spent al of your adult life in Virginia?”
“Uh . . . I guess. Yes.”
“You never traveled overseas?”
Dandridge shook his head. “With my parents, as a kid. We went to Europe a few times.”
“Okay, and as an adult, before your arrest, did you vacation anywhere in the United States?”
“I mean, sure.” He was looking at her as if she was an idiot.
“Where, exactly?”
“Wel , al over. Ski ng in Lake Tahoe most winters was a thing. I went to LA a few times with friends. Sailing—”
“Did you ever visit Mount Desert Island? In Maine?”
He didn’t look defensive, or wary. Not yet. “Yes,” he said, slowly.
“Why?”
“You had a friend who died there in suspicious circumstances.
Can you tel me more about that?”
Dandridge’s brow was furrowed. He leaned forward, his arms resting on the table. “Are you talking about Tom? Tom Spencer?
There was nothing suspicious about his death. The poor guy drowned. He was drunk. He hit his head.”