Page 23 of Truth, Lies, and Second Dates
“Fuck!” she said aloud, because her thoughts hadn’t been enough; she needed sound and volume. She’d rarely felt more vulgar in her life. Everything was filthy and ruined. Again.
So she’d carpe’d the diem and followed the rolling morgue. It reminded her of when she was younger and the neighborhood kids would run into their houses for money
(“Wait for meeeeeee!”)
and then trot behind the ice cream truck while it blared “Pop Goes the Weasel,” occasionally stopping to hand out that holiest of holies, the ice cream sandwich.*The parallel was so ludicrous she started laughing, and somewhere between the exit for 494 and University Avenue, the giggles had turned to tears. And not the delicately beautiful ones, like Demi Moore’s perfect teardrops rolling down her perfect cheeks inGhost.No, ugly, noisy sobs, the kind that required multiple Kleenexes and lots of nose blowing.
Now here she was, after walking through hallways and trying to wrap her brain around the fact that Danielle, who had been laid to rest, was never laid to rest. It all got churned up again, and what the hell didWRONGmean? Wrong girl? Wrong funeral home? Wrong Monahan?
A month after Danielle’s murder, she had told herself it was over. She did it again at the one year mark, the two year mark, five, eight, ten: years spent satisfactorily observing that everything was under control and it was definitely over.
Hokey as it was, she understood and was facing it now: it would never be over, no matter how far she flew.
WRONG.
She closed her eyes, but could still see the staggered, dirty-gray lettering on the wall, the accusation in Danielle’s ashes for everyone to see.
“Captain Capp?”
And there was Tom again, looking as delicious as he had last night, though he was absently rubbing his knee. She assumed that was why he’d yelled.
Now, as she had last night, she found him quite striking. Ever since she saw a buff Patrick Stewart in a tank top (Star Trek: First Contact—both her parents had been exuberant Trekkies), she’d equated bald with brainy/sexy. In particular, bald on purpose.
She realized she’d been staring at him without saying anything. “Oh, it’s Captain now?”
“It’s whatever you’d like,” he replied coolly.
“Why’d they call you?”
He smiled a little. “They know I like the odd ones.”
“Oh.”
“You followed me here.”
“Yes.” He didn’t seem alarmed or angry. He just looked at her and waited. And when she didn’t elaborate, he added, “You have some questions for me.”
“Actually, I think you probably have some questions forme.”
“Come with me,” he said, which should have been annoying—so perfunctory!—but really, it was comforting to have something to do. There were hierarchies everywhere, in particular her job (and perhaps his?) and sometimes knowing where everyone was supposed to be was… was nice. She didn’t know why.
She followed him out of the waiting room, down a hall bare of everything but nameplates and an exit sign, and into a surgically neat office, presumably Dr. Thomas Baker’s office, according to the sign.
“So.”
“Yeah.”
“You were a witness. Ten years ago, not last night.”
“A piss-poor one,” she admitted. “I never saw a thing. By the time I got back, she was—it was over.”
“It must have been difficult.”
Worst. Small talk. Ever. “I—yeah. Just a smidge. And then ten years roll by and suddenly it’s like it happened yesterday. Like it’s still fresh.”
“For someone, itisfresh.”
“Yeah.” Because he was right. Someone had been pissed about the murder. Or the memorial. Or both. Then, “Son of a buggering switch?”
