Page 7 of These Cold Strangers

Good question. I have the video of Todd saving the man’s life bookmarked and watch it again, and again, and again. It has millions of views now, yet no one but me seems to know who the Good Samaritan is. The same refrain runs through my mind each time I hit replay:I should just out him.I can write the story and give it to Harry. At least tell him. I envision walking into his office. “Harry, guess what? I have the scoop.” He gives me the lead, above the fold. Hand forced, Todd gives me the interview. My career is made.

I dream of this too. I wake in the night, triumphant, then come to fully and realize I’ve done nothing.

Simone texts. I don’t respond.

I am in stasis. When I’m not thinking about Todd, I search for the bits and pieces of him I can find online. I stare at that anonymous email address on the funeral listing, imagining how I will write to him and appeal to his sense ofpride. Then I dream of him with a knife, and the cycle starts over.

I refill my prescription. Obsession has always been a problem for me. I recognize I’m slipping. I should reach out to my therapist. I should tell my friends. I am no different from an alcoholic holding a full, unopened bottle who knows they’re about to throw away years of sobriety, teetering on the edge of a life implosion. But I can’t stop thinking about him. I am about to go supernova.

Then the photographer dies.

Hypothermia, compounded by the initial suspected pulmonary embolism that made him drop in the street. If someone had helped him sooner, the paper says, if only one of the people who’d walked past had stopped earlier. The man’s family would like to thank the hero who did. That’s enough for me.

I am in the car an hour later. A draft of the story sits in my email, waiting to be sent to Harry.

CHAPTER NINE

Marchburg is cruel in the early days of winter. The river sends thick fog curling through the streets. The cheerful people retreat indoors, and the sidewalks are covered in ice. The sun disappears for days at a time, and the sky is a chilly silver. I shiver in my coat as I walk up to Todd’s house.

The light isn’t on in his office; maybe he’s not home. But I will not be deterred. Not again. I have already decided: I will ask for his story, but if he’s not willing to go on the record, or even stay off the record, I am telling the world of his good deed. The family wants to thank him. The world wants to laud him. And I am the conduit through which this will happen. Win-win for all involved.

Except for the dead man, of course.

I ring the bell. Wait a minute. Ring again. Nothing.

He’s not home. I am partially relieved.

The detached garage is on the side of the lot, with a covered walkway connecting it to the main house. It is two stories, with two dormer windows—an attic space, perfect for an office or guest room. The garage door itself has three long horizontal windows. Standing on tiptoe, I can barely get my eyes to the bottom of the frame.

A red Jeep is inside.

Wow. He still has it. Why does the sight of it fill me with dread?

Also, there goes step two of my ill-conceived plan: look for a key under the mat, so I can get into the house and look around before he comes back. If his Jeep is here ...

“Addie?”

I emit a small scream of surprise and whip around to find the owner of said Jeep standing three feet away, arms crossed on his chest. He does not look happy. At all.

“Todd. Hi. I was just—”

“Looking for me?”

Now comes the charming smile, and my shoulders drop from around my ears as an answering grin crosses my lips. “You caught me.”

“You swung by the other day, too, but you didn’t knock. I was hoping you would.”

“You were?”

“Yeah. I was thinking about calling you. Or even driving up. I looked up your address and everything. Maybe I was too hasty before. About DC.”

“Oh! That’s great. I’m happy to make this more formal, schedule a time—”

“No time like the present. I was getting ready to make dinner.” He shakes a grocery bag. “Why don’t you join me? Steak okay?”

“I mean, what else was I supposed to do? The guy looked dead. I couldn’t just step over him. I had to stop, I had to check. When I realized he was alive ...” He shrugs and ducks his head. He’s shy, I realize. And proud of his actions.

I take a sip of my wine. We’re into a second bottle, sitting on his back deck, looking over the woods. I am stuffed full of steak and baked potatoes and grilled asparagus. The man can cook. I’m feeling light headed, whether from the wine or theobvious flirting that preceded this switch in conversation to why I’m really here. Todd is hot. He’s smart. He’s funny. He’s clearly into me. And now he’s giving me the story I long for. The story that’s going to make my career take off.

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