15

It can’t be. Matt stared at the photo on his desk computer. He was reading the Boston Register, online, as he did every day. A Red Sox fan since he was a kid, he imagined he remembered his dad talking to him about Yaz, and Eck, and Carlton Fisk. Now, a thousand miles away and twenty-some years later, Matt couldn’t shake the Sox habit.

Today it was political news, not sports, that skidded his work to a halt. A picture of a woman at a rally. One face in the crowd. It hit him as hard as a wild pitch.

It was only a couple years since he’d seen her. If that was her. Matt clicked the arrow in the center of the picture, zooming in. Closer.

Crap. It’s her. Is it her? He placed the plus-sign directly over her face, his heart racing. Clicked his mouse, making the photo bigger. Her face blurred from black-and-white to gray. No help.

Her attitude. Her stance. That wild blond hair, knockout body, curves obvious under those almost too-tight skirts she always wore. She’d wanted to be a model, she’d admitted, but the big agencies told her she was too short. Maybe I can just model for you … privately, she’d teased him. With that same smile he now saw in the photo. Back in B-school, after the library closed, walking by the river, she had—he remembered it, perfectly—thrilled him. Then terrified him. He thought she was out of his life.

The bustle and buzz of his office faded. He vaguely heard see-ya-tomorrows, saw lights flipping off in the glass cubicles down the hall, the ticker go dark. The markets were closed, the gang headed home. Not him. Not now.

Maybe there were other photos. Maybe it was by chance. Maybe it was someone who looked like her. His keyboard clattered as he typed in the search.

Lassiter. Rally. Boston. Search images. Click.

A gallery of wide shots popped up on his flat computer screen. He’d have to check one at a time. But even if he could tell, what would he know?

Damn it. This would be fricking impossible.

Matt yanked at his tie, pulled open the collar button of his pale blue oxford shirt. He felt the prickle of sweat at the back of his neck. Why’d he ever thought this day wouldn’t come?

What the hell is she doing in Boston? If she was in Boston. He calculated the possibilities. And there were only two: It was a coincidence. Or it wasn’t.

And if it wasn’t, he was screwed. And he wasn’t the only one.

Why had he told her? A couple of brews, the sun on the river, that striped blanket. It had been hot for May. She’d stripped off her top, laughing, thrown it across his shoulders, drawing her to him. Surprising him with that little bathing suit thing underneath. They’d come here to study, he reminded her. Marketing finals, big stuff.

She’d teased, pouted, yanked off his Sox cap and tossed it into the river. When he protested, she’d retrieved it, returning dripping and slick, the sun glistening on her wet skin. “All I want is you, Mattie,” she’d said. “I know I can change your mind. We’re meant to be together. Let me show you.”

And how could he have said no? Even though it wasn’t her, it never had been, it never would be. It was almost the end of the school year. A month or two before B-school graduation. Why not?

Later, afterwards, he was—whatever. Wiped out. Might as well have been on drugs. And he’d told her, told her why they couldn’t be together, told her why he couldn’t love her, or anyone. Grief over his mother still raw, he’d told Holly everything. Even about what happened.

“Your poor mother,” she’d said. Consoled him. “But I can wait. However long it takes.” He remembered her drawing one finger, slowly, down his bare chest, remembered how the finger continued, remembered he couldn’t stand it. And she knew it. Christ, he’d told her. I told her. Even though he’d promised not to. He made her vow to keep their secret.

“You’ll change your mind about me, when you’re ready,” she whispered. “That’s what I’m promising you.”

When the semester was over, they graduated, she went—wherever she went. Two frigging years ago.

He stared at the computer screen, cursor flashing, the pixilated image taunting him. But maybe it’s not her. It was his secret to tell. When he wanted to. If he wanted to.

A rustle at his doorway. He swiveled his chair, annoyed. The intern took a tentative step into his office. “Matt?”

Matt raised one hand, waved her away. Pointed to his headset. I’m busy.

Made another gesture. And close the door.

“Boston,” he said into the phone. “Round trip. Open return. When’s the next flight? Tonight? First thing tomorrow?”

*   *   *

Do not turn around. Do not turn around. Jane leaned her forehead against the chilly window of the subway car as it motored up into the night landscape of bustling Kenmore Square, racketing her home. She pulled her black wool coat closer, sliding her gloved hands under her sleeves. Absurd, wanting to look behind her. No one was there. What could be safer than the Green Line?

Arthur Vick was not on the train. She was spooked, that was for sure. But Arthur Vick, with all those grocery stores and TV commercials, picture in all the papers, would never take the T. He didn’t send the letters. He didn’t kill Sellica; he was not the Bridge Killer.

Right?

Boston hurtled by. Beacon Street front porches, lights switching on. Rows of brownstones, a spate of restaurants, cars playing beat-the-trolley across the intersections. Friday night, beginning of the weekend rituals. She was almost home.

Sellica was dead. Her secrets were safe. Jane was alone.

“There you have it,” she whispered to the window. Her breath made a little fog place on the glass.

Alex, for now at least, had let her off the hook. Maybe he’ll even turn out to be a good guy. Tuck was assigned the Sellica story. Jane, fighting off stomach-clenching memories, had agreed to give some color from her trial days. No byline. Tay Reidy acquiesced, even giving Jane a regal pat on the back as he made his exit, lawyer in tow.

Tuck had already added a photo of the Sellica crime scene to the macabre collection tacked to her more-than-half of the bulletin board. How’d she get that, so quickly? Jane had tried to avoid looking.

Channel 11 hadn’t called back.

All in all, another fun day in Jane world. And the prospects for tomorrow were no better. In fact, they might be worse.

She forced a smile. She would go home, put on sweats, have a glass of wine, turn on some Diana Krall. Watch a movie. Call Amy. Go visit Eli for a game of Psychonauts; maybe his mom, Neena, would be up for a chat. See if Mrs. W had some leftovers. Almost home. She was not afraid.

But Jake. He would go ballistic over tomorrow morning’s headlines. Jane had hung around the newsroom for a while, still bemused over the identity of the real Tuck, who seemed driven but friendly enough. At some point, BRIDGE KILLER CHANGES TACTICS popped up as the headline in the dummy edition. The press room had held the front page for Tuck. As long as there were murders, Miss Tucker Cameron was queen bee.

The train’s doors hissed open, jolting Jane back to reality. Her stop. Corey Road. She grabbed her purse and tote bag from the train’s gritty floor and clattered down the steps to the street.

Her mind spiraled around Sellica’s murder. Was there anything she knew that Jake should know? If there were, should she tell him? Could she? She really wanted to talk to him. She really, really wanted to find out what he thought about Sellica. Maybe she could just call him, all business, totally reporter, and say—

Jane jumped as her cell phone rang. She clutched a hand to her throat, then burst out laughing, the sound disappearing into the night. Lucky no one was here to see how jumpy she was. She looked around, spooked. A police car on patrol, lights off. Sidewalks deserted. Safe. And maybe it was Jake calling.

The phone rang again. She clicked it on, stepping into the protective glow of a streetlight. It better not be Channel 11 again. Jerks. She missed TV. Missed her old life. But that door was closed.

“This is Jane.”

“Jane Ryland?” A woman’s voice. Low, not quite a whisper.

“Yes?”

“This is Moira Lassiter. I apologize for phoning so late.”

Good news? About time. “Oh, Mrs. Lassiter. Thank you for calling. And it’s not so—”

“Jane?” Moira Lassiter interrupted. “I can’t talk now. About that interview. Let’s do it.”