42

“Wake up, Hollister.” Matt draped Holly onto the passenger seat of his car. She hadn’t exactly fainted, but he’d arrived right in time to catch her as her knees gave way. He pulled off her stretchy cap and tossed it into the backseat. She still looked terrific, that was for sure. Though he figured seeing him would be a shocker, he never expected she’d totally lose it like this. Well, it could work for him. “Holly? You with me here?”

“Is it really you? Matt?” She turned to him as he got behind the wheel, one palm under her cheek like a groggy little girl. “How did you know—?”

“Let’s not talk about that now,” Matt said. “You look kinda woozy. Do you need some water?”

Holly shook her head slowly, staring at him. She reached out with one hand, didn’t quite touch him. “No, no, don’t leave. No water. I’m fine. It’s only—Matt?”

“Yes, it’s me.”

“You called me Hollister. I knew you would, I knew it. Knew if I…” Her voice trailed off. She closed her eyes.

Geez. A complete wack. Matt felt her car keys in her pocket and clicked her car locked through his open window. Meters not in effect Sundays, that was a big plus. Even if she didn’t move her car tonight, she wouldn’t get a ticket until the next day. Holly’s earbuds had fallen out, and he’d looped them around her neck. He could hear the buzz of some music coming from them.

“The world works in mysterious ways.” From somewhere he pulled out a line Holly used to throw at him. He rolled his eyes, knowing she’d never notice. “I guess I was meant to find you.”

“Mmmmm,” she said. Keeping her eyes closed. “Tell me the story, though. The whole thing.”

“Tell you the…?”

Holly sat up, tucked one ankle under her, wide-eyed as a kid asking for another fairy tale. “The whole story. How you found me.”

Nip this puppy in the bud, Matt thought. Hell, he needed to stall for time, but he’d tell her the truth, kind of, then move on. “Well, I saw your picture in the paper. The Boston paper. I read it for the Red Sox, you know?”

He tapped the newspaper on the console next to him. “I don’t get the print version back home, so I check out the Register online. And there you were, in a story about—”

“My picture’s in today’s paper?” Holly’s eyes sparkled. She sat up straighter, grabbing for the Sunday Register he’d purchased outside the post office. “Let’s see!”

Matt had to laugh, watching her scan the front page. “Not today’s paper,” Matt said. “It was … a couple days ago. So I flew in to see if I could find you.”

He expected—he didn’t know what he expected. But not this. Holly had the newspaper in front of her face. Like she’d completely forgotten about him.

“Holly? Hollister?” What the hell?

“Jane Ryland works for the Register?” Holly’s voice was hollow, and her finger pointed at something on the front page. “She’s a reporter for the Register? I thought she was television. A television reporter. Doesn’t she work at Channel Eleven?”

She turned to him, her face crumbling. Was she about to cry? The woman was certifiable. Holly looked back at the paper, running her finger down a column.

“Jane what?” Matt said. “Who’s she?”

Holly folded his newspaper so the article she was reading was the only thing showing.

“I have to go,” she said.

Are you friggin’ kidding me? “Ah, Holly, Hollister, no, not now, not now that we finally found each other again.” Matt scrambled to get back the advantage. Whatever just happened, he had no idea. “Whatever it is about this Jane, whoever that is, I know I can help you. I’m here to help you. But, Holly, it’s a beautiful Sunday, and we’re together, and there’s nothing you can do right now about whatever is…”

Matt put himself in full-speed-ahead sales mode, trying to gauge Holly’s reaction.

“Let’s go for a walk, the way we used to. Or sit in a café, and you can tell me everything.” He was not going to let her escape, not until he found out what she was up to. Maybe this Jane thing was something he should know about.

Reality hit. Shit. Jane. Reporter.

“Hollister,” he said. Was she planning to tell what she knew? Was she stalking some newspaper or television person? That could be a disaster. He put his hand on her shoulder. Last ditch. “Come to my hotel room. Be with me.”

He watched as she lowered the paper. She turned to him, smiling.

And we have a sale, ladies and gentlemen. Time to close the deal. “I’ll bring you back to your car later,” Matt said. “Unless you have other plans?”

“My Matt,” she said.

*   *   *

Jake’s car? In front of her house? As soon as she turned onto Corey Road, Jane recognized that undercover Jeep he sometimes used, dark blue, tinted windows. The bright morning had softened into gray afternoon. Sparse trees and empty sidewalks, fading piles of fallen leaves, even the rows of brownstones made her street a rainbow of neutral. End-of-October neutral. She caught a glimpse of Jake in the front seat. Why was he here?

Jake was out and beside her before she turned off the ignition.

“I need to talk to you, not on the phone,” he said as she got out. He moved close to her, his hand grasping her arm. Pushed her car door closed with his hip. “How are you?”

She could smell peppermint on his breath, and coffee. “Hey, Jakey,” she said. She left his hand there, didn’t move away from him. No one was watching them. And if they were—well. They weren’t. “I’m good. Except for being exhausted. Drove back from Springfield after all that, then had to go to the paper. And I need to take a nap before I die of sleep deprivation.”

She stopped. Tried to read his face. “Jake? What happened? Is this about Kenna Wilkes?”

Jake gave her a funny look. Frowning. “Kenna Wilkes? Why would—?” He cocked his head toward her building. “Can we go in?”

Jane’s eyebrows went up. “Sure, I guess. Is everything okay?” He was scaring her a little. But it had to be about his e-mail. After her initial bafflement, she’d figured he must have gotten the name Kenna Wilkes from Tuck. But why would he e-mail Jane about that? Unless Kenna—somehow—was connected with the bridge killings. Or maybe with Arthur Vick? She tucked her arm through Jake’s, clicking her car locked.

She couldn’t decide if she felt safer with him here, or more afraid. Maybe she was simply exhausted.

“Come in for five minutes. You can tell me what’s going on. Then I have to sleep. I’ve got an interview at five with—well, a work thing. But is everything okay? Are you okay?”

“Sure,” Jake said. “Everything’s fine.”

They climbed the series of narrowing concrete steps to her brownstone in silence, neither of them letting go of the other. Jane turned the lock in the outer door, punched in an alarm code, scooped up the newspaper from the black and white tiled entryway. They climbed two flights of wood-paneled stairway, arm in arm, silent.

“Nice place,” Jake said when she opened the door.

Jane gave her apartment a quick once-over look, relieved she’d put most of her stuff away before she’d headed out to Sellica’s funeral. Gosh, only yesterday. Not too many magazines and newspapers piled on the glass coffee table, only one coffee mug on the end table, only one blazer hanging over the back of a dining room chair. Presentable. She glanced at the cocoa-brown leather couch in her living room, still half-expecting Murrow to leap from her spot and greet her at the door. Poor kitty. She’d had a long and good life.

“Thanks,” Jane said. Weird he’d never been here before. She’d gone to his apartment. That once. That night. She plopped the newspaper on the dining room table and shrugged off her coat. Remembered she was still wearing the same black skirt and turtleneck as yesterday, and hardly had on makeup. Jake was already sitting in the taupe-striped wing chair by the fireplace, fussing with the zipper on his jacket.

What is this all about?

“Listen, Jane,” Jake began. “I’d get nailed for talking to you about this. I just yelled at Tuck for ditching protocol.”

“What did she—?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “But we got some info about one of the victims. A Bridge Killer victim. I mean, not the Bridge Killer. Look. Off the record?”

Jane plonked her head against the back of the couch, hugging a paisley throw pillow. “Jake Brogan. You show up at my apartment. E-mail me a name with no explanation. Tell me about some Amaryllis person without saying why. I think we’re way past off the record, dude.”

“Yeah, gotcha. But, Jane, this is for you, not for the paper. I want you to be careful of Arthur Vick. Seems like all the victims are connected to him. Seems like he’s not a good guy to have as an enemy. And if he’s coming after—”

The doorbell rang, an insistent buzz that cut through Jake’s words. Jane stood, knocking her pillow over the coffee table and onto the tight design of the rug. Her eyes widened, and she shook her head: No idea …

Jake was already at the door. He cocked his head. Made his hand into a puppet. Ask who it is, he mouthed.