21

Jane felt guilty as hell.

Guilty about Alex. Guilty about Sellica.

But right now, standing on the steps of All Saints waiting for a funeral to begin, she had to ignore her cell phone’s insistent vibration. It was certainly Alex, certainly reacting to the voice mail message she’d left him about the Moira Lassiter bombshell. Moira, intense and persistent, sticking to her story, insisted she was in love with her husband and wanted only to “uncover the truth” to prevent him from making “a career-ending error.”

The fact that Moira divulged her suspicions was almost a bigger story. And if that was vodka in her glass instead of water? Did that make her story more true? Or less? It would sure explain why she suddenly became a nonperson in the campaign. Jane was dying to get into the newsroom. Confer with Alex. Plot their strategy. Figure out how to confirm it all.

Alex would have to admit that her instincts about the other woman had been right, which would be really gratifying. And if it was a drinking thing, fine, his instincts had been right, too. But now Jane had to be here at the church. Guilty or not.

A few TV stations had sent crews to Sellica’s funeral, vulture patrols, looking for mourner-video to “humanize” their coverage of the murder. This part of TV she didn’t miss one bit. Intruding on strangers’ grief to tape a few moments of video sorrow. She watched as a stern-faced minister allowed TV to get a few exteriors, then banished them to across the street. Eventually they gave up, headed off to some other tragedy.

Two black-clad arrivals hugged Mrs. Darden, then entered the church, leaving her alone next to a tall arrangement of pine branches and white chrysanthemums. Jane approached her, took the woman’s gloved hand in hers. Mrs. Darden was all shades of black and soft gray, a fragile sparrow.

“Mrs. Darden, I’m so sorry for your loss,” Jane said. She struggled for the appropriate words. “Sellica was … you must be…”

It was only the second time she’d met Mrs. Darden. The first time, Sellica was alive, and had told her about Arthur Vick. Jane had been pumped for the scoop. Assured Sellica she’d never reveal her as the source. Assured her mother she could keep the secret. It had been exciting, knowing she’d be able to change their lives. As it turned out, change was exactly what happened. Jane got fired. Sellica got killed.

“I’m so sorry, I don’t know what to say,” Jane started over, trying not to lose her composure. Sellica’s death had nothing to do with her, logically, but somehow it felt as if it did. Everything bad happened after Super Jane stepped in to make things right. “It’s just—”

“She trusted you, Miss Ryland, and don’t you worry that you let her down.” Leota Darden wore a single white calla lily pinned to her black coat. She touched it briefly with a gloved finger. “My Sellica got herself into trouble. We tried, we all tried, but none of us could help her. Now she’s in a better place. I appreciate you’re here.”

Mrs. Darden’s eyes were rimmed with red, tears threatening, lines on her face deeper than Jane remembered. She clutched Jane’s wrist, pulling her closer. Jane picked up a faint scent of roses, maybe vanilla. Mrs. Darden’s hat brushed Jane’s cheek.

“But, Jane. I need to ask you…”

Jane leaned down, calculating. Ask me what? Maybe Sellica told her something. Dammit. The cell phone. It vibrated again, fuzzing against her thigh. Lucky she’d turned off the ringer. Alex again, no question. She had to ignore him. Had to hear what Mrs. Darden was about to say.

“Will the police care?” Mrs. Darden whispered. Her slim fingers tightened around Jane’s wrist. “Will they find who did this? Or will they think my Sellica deserved it? For the life she had? And what if it was the Bridge Killer?”

Jane almost burst into tears. How could she be so selfish, so self-centered? Of course what Mrs. Darden wanted to say had nothing to do with the Vick case. Nothing to do with her. This poor woman. First, seeing her daughter’s disreputable profession put in the spotlight by a lying, manipulative jerk. Then learning she was murdered, maybe by a serial killer. And today, at her only daughter’s funeral, the grieving mother actually had to worry whether the police cared.

Sellica had trusted Jane. Now her mother was trusting her, too. Despite everything that happened. Jane owed them. This time, she would make things right.

“Of course the police care. Of course they do.” Jane held Mrs. Darden’s eyes. Promising. Meaning it. “Listen. I know someone on this case. Pretty well. A detective. I’ll see what I can find out for you.”

“The police already came. A young man, to my house.” Mrs. Darden leaned closer, whispering. “He said there was no Bridge Killer.”

That was Jake. Had to be. What if Mrs. Darden told him about her and Sellica?

“Leezey? Honey, we’re so sorry.”

“Sweetie, we’re here for you.”

Two women, Mrs. Darden’s age, gray hair, tweed coats, both in hats with fabric flowers and elaborate feathers, arrived at the top of the steps. One at a time, murmuring their condolences, they hugged their friend.

Jane retreated, grateful for the moment to collect her thoughts. If Mrs. Darden told Jake that Sellica was her source—that might solve her problem. If Jake knew, but not from her, she could talk to him about it. Right? Without breaching a confidence. That could change everything. The lawyers, the appeal, the million-dollar judgment.

Maybe Mrs. Darden, not Sellica, was the key to her redemption.

Jane’s cell phone vibrated again. The women were still deep in conversation, so she reached into her pocket. A text. From Alex.

Where U? Yr Moira story hot. Big. Need U to go to Springfield. By 7. Lassiter rally. Staying o-nite. U right maybe. Got camera? Call me.

She stared at the screen. Alex was sending her to Springfield? Where Moira said the campaign event was scheduled. They were staying overnight? Of course she had her camera. Of course she was curious, and of course she wanted to see if Moira’s suspicions were true. And Archive Gus’s photos were still in her car, though she knew the face of the woman in the red coat perfectly, even without them.

What to do? Springfield was straight out the Mass Turnpike, maybe an hour and a half from Boston. If she left now, drove fast, she’d get there in time. But she’d miss the funeral. Which meant she’d miss talking to anyone who might be on the lookout for her. Whoever that would be.

“Jane?”

She looked up, startled at the hissed whisper from behind her, almost dropping her phone. Who knew her name? Was this the person? Someone who had come looking for her? She whirled toward the sound, squinting in the semidarkness. A shape came closer, stepping into the light. Jane smiled, stashing her phone. She’d know that shape anywhere. She kept her own voice low, not quite a whisper. It was a funeral, after all.

“Jake Brogan. You’ve got to stop sneaking up on me. What’re you doing here?”

“What are you?”

He came up right beside her, standing shoulder to shoulder, closer than an acquaintance should. She loved how his sandy hair curled over his chunky black turtleneck. Loved how he smelled of citrus and pine. Loved how his jeans … Shut up.

“Just paying my respects,” Jane said. Though no one was watching, she edged away, putting some space between them. For her own good. “I’m leaving, actually. I have to go to Springfield. A work thing.”

He moved forward, closing the space, eyeing her. “I can’t get used to your hair, Janey. But I think I like it. Anyway, I was phoning you. What work thing? You still following Lassiter?”

Jane waved a dismissive hand. She couldn’t tell Jake about the Moira thing. But now she had to find out if Jake knew about her and Sellica. How could she ask without giving herself away? And even if he knew … “No biggie. So, like I said. What’re you doing here?”

Jake shrugged back, imitating her.

She narrowed her eyes. Adding it up. “Oh. You’re doing the Bridge Killer. Oh.” She took a quick look to see if anyone was aware of their conversation. Kept her voice low. “You think Sellica is a victim, don’t you? Does that mean now you think there is a Bridge Killer? And he—might be here?”

She looked around again. Seemed unlikely, unless the Bridge Killer was a middle-aged woman. Someone’s grandmother. Or a priest.

“Jakey?” She dared to touch the sleeve of his leather jacket. No harm in that. “Really. Tell me.”

“Listen. I bet I can get you to Springfield on time. Want me to drive you in the cruiser?” Jake covered her hand with his, held them together against his jacket. “Lights and siren. Very sexy. Very fast. You know you love it.”

“You’re an idiot.” I do, though. Love it. Wish we could … but no. She took her hand away, laughing. “No thanks, bub. I’d like to get there in one piece. Plus, you’re working. I’m working. I have to go.”

“Jane. Hang on a minute. Listen.” He turned to her, straight on. His face had hardened. No more teasing. “Can we go off the record?

Jane laughed again, couldn’t help it, poked him in the side with a finger. “What else is new? Our whole life is off the record.”

“Seriously. Walk with me.” Jake gestured toward the sidewalk.

“Okay, I’m walking. I’m walking seriously.” Side by side but separate, they walked together down the steep front steps. No more mourners arriving. The detail cops had gone.

She heard a sound, saw a change in the light. She turned, and saw the church doors closing. The service must be starting.

“Jake, it’s—” She stopped. “Do you need to go in?”

“Nope. I’m done here. Listen. Like I said. Can we go off the record?”

At the bottom of the steps, they stood on the sidewalk, alone. From inside the church, a spotlight bloomed, illuminating a multicolored rose window. Splotches of crimson and indigo appeared on the lawn and pavement and parked cars, coloring the twilight.

“Fine. Okay, Detective Brogan. Off the record.” Jane rolled her eyes, all drama. She shoved her hands into her coat pockets. It was getting colder. And much darker. She was grateful for the streetlights. She wished she could stay with Jake, maybe sneak a dinner, talk awhile, someplace where no one would notice them. But there was no choice. She had to leave. “What’s up?”

“Ever hear of an Amaryllis Roldan?”

“Who’s that?” Jane flipped through her mental address book. “R-o-l-d-a-n? I’m pretty sure I don’t know an Amaryllis anything. Who is she?”

“Just do this my way, for once. Sellica ever mention that name to you?”

“Why would Sellica and I have talked?” Jane looked up at him. “Listen. I lost my bosses a million bucks for not telling my source, and now they’re my ex-bosses. Why would I discuss it with you?” She paused. They were alone. “Adorable as you are, Jakey. So who’s Amaryllis Roldan?”

Jake smiled, acknowledging, but his mind was obviously somewhere else. He fiddled with the heavy metal zipper of his leather jacket, zipping one side up and down as he always did when thinking. The zipping stopped.

“Here’s the deal: I know Sellica was your source.”

This is it. Jane opened her mouth. Then closed it. No. It didn’t matter what he knew. She’d made a promise.

Plus, if Jake really respected me, he shouldn’t be trying to get me to break that promise. Right? This is the essence of the “Jake and Jane” problem. Proof that a relationship can never work. I’ll never know whether he really cares about me, or about his case.

“Jake. I don’t care what you say you know.” Jane unwrapped her gray silk scarf, doubled it, then looped it back around her neck. “Or what super-secret cop methods you think you can use to get me to say something. I’m done talking about Sellica Darden. Done. I’m going to Springfield. And you should go find the Bridge Killer, or whatever it is you’re really supposed to be doing.”

She adjusted her shoulder bag, half turned, ready to walk away.

“Janey.”

“What? Why are you pushing me? You know I can’t talk about this. Why are we having this conversation?”

“Think, okay? Why am I here? Why would I care about Sellica being your source?”

Jane turned all the way back, considering. She felt her eyes widen. “Arthur Vick,” she said. “You think it’s Arthur asshole Vick.”

Jake nodded. Barely. But that was a yes.

Jake is the one telling secrets. “Yeah,” Jane whispered. “I think it’s him, too.”