TREVOR SHORE FINDS ME BETWEEN the fruits and the salads, a half-laden basket over my arm. Much as I resent the intrusion of shopping on my billable hours, a girl has to eat.
“Ms. Truitt, may I have a word?”
I recognize him right away, his brown tam and Oxford scarf. He’s tall and gaunt, but it’s his eyes that hold me—thin rings of blue encircling enormous pupils that skitter as he tries to meet mine.
“Mr. Shore,” I say. “What are you doing here?”
“I need to talk to you, Ms. Truitt.”
There are ethical rules about this sort of thing. I should tell him it’s a bad idea for us to be speaking alone, but I don’t.
“There’s a Starbucks next door,” I say. I look at my shopping, set it down, and follow him out the door.
At the crowded coffee bar, I stand awkwardly beside him. “Go get a seat,” he says. “What can I bring you?”
“Tall black,” I reply and head to the plush chairs at the back.
A moment later he places two paper cups on the table between us and sinks into his chair. He looks like an origami doll—sweater hanging from angular shoulders, jeans falling in folds over his boots. He’s lost weight since he bought these clothes. A lot. Laura’s death has taken its toll, but if this is my one shot at Trevor Shore, I need to ask the tough questions.
I launch in. “Who killed Laura, Trevor?”
“Not me, if that’s what you’re implying.”
“I’d say you’re a prime candidate. You slept with her, then beat her when she wanted to go back to her husband. She’s lucky she got away with just a black eye.” I lean in. “You were jealous, weren’t you? Furious that she’d leave you. You knew the house, knew where the gun was. Doesn’t look good for you, Trevor.”
“I loved her,” he whispers hoarsely. “You have to believe me.”
The ancient Othello theme, I loved her so much she had to die.
He’s talking again. “She broke it off with me months ago. She and Vincent were reconciling, going to give it another go.”
“She broke it off months ago,” I repeat flatly. “Then explain why you went to the Stay-A-While Motel with her the day before she was killed.”
He blanches. “I never—”
“Don’t bullshit me, Trevor.”
“We never—it was over. I just wanted to talk to her, warn her.”
“Warn her?” My heart sinks. “About Vincent?”
“No, no.”
He shrugs.
“I get it. You wanted to warn her about yourself. Is that why you’re here? To alleviate your guilt about Vincent taking the rap, Trevor?” I press on. “You were upset, not thinking straight. She told you she was back with her husband, pregnant by him, and you lost it. Part of you loved her, part of you hated her. You couldn’t take it anymore. So you killed her.”
“You’ve got it all wrong. I’m the one in danger now.” His eyes dart wildly into the corners of the crowded room.
“Why?”
“I know too much.”
“About?”
“The family, the business, the whole damned lot.” He fixes his eyes on me. “And I know I’m being followed, Ms. Truitt. I can’t stay long. Unless I get out of here, I’m dead.”
“Who would want you dead? And why?” Our coffees cool on the table, untouched. “I’m getting tired of this, Trevor. Why are you here?”
“I loved Laura. I want to see her death avenged. And I want you to put the real killer behind bars so I can stop running.”
“Then tell me who did it.”
“If I tell you, I’m dead, no matter where I go. If I say nothing and leave town, they’ll let me be. You have to figure it out yourself.”
“Why can’t you just tell me? Seriously, how would killing you help them, whoever they are?”
“Omertà,” he whispers.
“Revenge?”
He nods.
“Revenge for you killing her?”
“No, Ms. Truitt. Revenge for telling.”
My mind reels. Who has that kind of power? “You’re afraid that if you tell me what you know, Vincent Trussardi will have you killed?”
He shakes his head. “No, no.”
“Then who?”
Trevor’s babbling. He can’t talk sense, but he can’t stop talking—it’s irrational, but I’ve seen it before. A lot of things can drive a man crazy. Including guilt. I need to get back to what matters to my case.
“Have the police talked to you?”
“No, I’ve been hiding out. But they’ll find me if I stay here any longer. I’m leaving the country.”
I sit very still. I can’t have anything to do with this. If Cy finds out, I’ll be charged with obstructing justice—maybe worse.
“You shouldn’t have come to me.” I start to rise, but Shore’s voice pulls me back down.
“I know what you’re thinking: ‘If he didn’t kill her, why is he running?’ Let’s just leave it at this—if they find me or if the police talk to me, I’m done for.”
“The police will give you protective custody. You need to talk to them.”
“Protective custody can’t save me.”
“Then why did you come to me, Mr. Shore?”
“You’re the only one who can set things right. For Laura, for myself.”
“And how does that help my client?”
“If you figure it out—” He breaks off, gets to his feet. “I’ve told you this in confidence. A lawyer is bound to keep confidences—I read that somewhere. What I’ve said is between you and me. You must never tell anyone about this conversation.”
If I wanted, I could give him a lecture on solicitor-client privilege, tell him you need a lawyer-client relationship for it to apply, tell him it can’t be used to obstruct justice. But there’s no point.
“The house, Ms. Truitt. You’ll find the truth; it’s all there.” He swallows. “I’ve said too much. Goodbye.”
He disappears into the crush of backpacks milling at the door.