Cassie.
Should he call her back? He wasn’t sure. She had called him, which was certainly a sign of some sort, but then again she had also hung up. Or been disconnected. But if she’d been disconnected, wouldn’t she call back when she was back in range? Right, okay, wait for the return call. He shook his head. What the hell was wrong with him? All of a sudden he was a clammy-handed adolescent trying to interpret the signals of his first crush.
Ray wondered how she had gotten his phone number. Didn’t matter. What mattered was that she had called. Why? He had no idea. He kept the phone in his hand, willing it to vibrate, checking the battery to make sure it had enough juice, checking the bars to make sure he had enough coverage. Pathetic. Stop it. Cassie would call back or she wouldn’t.
And what if she didn’t?
Was he willing to go back to… to what? More booze and blackouts?
When he made the final turn toward his basement home—a grown man renting out a basement, for crying out loud—Ray pulled up short. There, in front of the dwelling, were four police cars.
Uh-oh.
He ducked behind a telephone pole. More pathetic. He debated making a run for it, but what good would that do? Plus, if they wanted to arrest him, Broome could have done it ten minutes ago. He took another look. His Pakistani landlord, Amir Baloch, stood in front of the house, his arms crossed. Ray approached tentatively, waiting for the cops to grab him. They didn’t. They entered and left the house with boxes.
Amir shook his head. “Like I’m back in the old country.”
“What happened?” Ray asked.
One of the cops spotted Ray and approached. His name tag said Howard Dodds. “Raymond Levine?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Officer Dodds.” He handed him a sheet of paper. “We have a subpoena to search these premises.”
“He only lives in the basement,” Amir said with a whine.
“The search is for the entire property,” Dodds said.
Ray didn’t bother reading the order. “Can I help you find something?”
“No.”
“I can give you passwords to my computer, if that makes it easier.”
Dodds smiled. “Nice try.”
“Excuse me?”
“Certain passwords are designed to destroy or delete files.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Just looking to be helpful, hmm?”
“Well,” Ray said, “yes.”
“Just let us do our job.” He turned and started back into the house.
Ray looked at his ashen landlord. “I’m sorry, Amir.”
“Do you have any idea what they want?”
“It’s a long story.”
Amir turned to him. “Will I get in any trouble?”
“No.”
“You’re certain?”
“Positive.”
“I got in trouble in Karachi. They held me in prison for six months. It is why we moved here.”
“I’m sorry, Amir.”
“What will he find?”
“Nothing,” Ray said. And he meant it. They would pore through his photographs, but they wouldn’t find anything. He flashed again to that night, to all that blood. That was the one image he’d never been able to kill with the alcohol—the one image that wouldn’t let up or even fade.
That was not entirely true. Cassie would never fade either.
Ray thought now about that strange photograph Broome had shown him, the one of the man with the shaved head and goatee. He didn’t get it, but it felt as though the walls were closing in on him. His chest began to hitch. He walked away, leaving Amir alone in front of his own home. For a moment Ray thought that he might cry. He tried to remember the last time he did that, really cried the way he wanted to right now. There were only two times in his adult life. The first was when his father died. The second was seventeen years ago, in that park.
He headed down the block. His favorite pub was there, but he didn’t enter, didn’t have a craving even. Rare. What he craved—what he’d always craved, he now realized—was to unburden himself. That sounded so hokey, so new age and therapist-like, but maybe, in the end, telling someone the truth about that night would, if not set him free, at least get him off this destructive path.
Maybe that was why he had sent Broome that photograph in the first place.
The question now was, who should he tell? The answer, as he stared down at the phone in his hand, was obvious.
The phone still hadn’t vibrated again, but so what? She had made a move. Now he should.
Ray hit the dial button, saw the name Megan Pierce pop up, and put the phone to his ear.
31
MEGAN WAS DOWN THE HALL from Agnes’s room when her cell phone sounded.
The Sunset Assisted Living facility tried like hell to be something other than what it was. The exterior aimed for Second-Empire Victorian B and B but landed more like prefab motel with the aluminum siding and fake ferns and wheelchair ramps on the lemonade porches. The interior too had lush green carpeting and too-bright reproductions of Renoir and Monet, but even the artwork came across as something you’d pick up at a bad yard sale or one of those clearance showrooms.
She passed by Missy Malek, who gave her the practiced, concerned face and said, “Perhaps we should talk soon?”
“After I see Agnes.”
“Of course,” Malek replied with something close to a bow.
So Megan had just made the turn down Agnes’s corridor when the phone number she recognized as Ray’s popped up on her mobile’s screen. She froze, unsure what to do, but in the end, she knew there was only one choice here. She hit the answer button and put the phone to her ear.
“Hello?”
“I hear they call you Megan now,” Ray said.
“It’s my real name.”
“I’d make the obvious comment that maybe nothing about us was real—”
“But we both know that would be a lie,” she said.
“Yeah.”
Silence.
“Did Broome find you?” she asked.
“He did.”
“Sorry about that.”
“No, you made the right move telling him.”
“What did you say to him?”
“Pretty much the same thing I told you.”
“Did he believe you?”
“I doubt it. The police are searching my apartment.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“If it helps,” Megan said, “I believe you.”