AFTER LOCKING THE TOTE bag in the BMW’s trunk, Diane slid into the driver’s seat, shut the door, sat motionless, staring at the concrete wall of the parking garage. As she’d ridden down in the elevator, fighting tears, she’d remembered the things she should have brought: her favorite bomber jacket, her snapshot album, her Madonna tapes, the serape that went so well with blue jeans. Her big saddle-leather purse was beside her on the seat. She opened the purse, checked inside. Yes, she had her wallet.
Was she really going to San Francisco?
Would Daniels cancel her credit card, if she went?
Once she’d gotten five hundred dollars in cash, on her credit card. She could do it again. And again—five, ten times. Right now. Then, if Daniels canceled her credit, she’d still have enough money to get to San Francisco. She wouldn’t stay with her father and his family, wouldn’t make that mistake. Instead, she’d tell her father that she was going to work in San Francisco. He would stake her to an apartment, first and last month’s rent—a fraction of what Swarthmore cost for a year. She would be a waitress at a health food restaurant. She would get a dog, take him running on the beach. She would—
Behind her, shapes were shifting, the light was changing. In the mirror she saw a familiar shape: Daniels’s black town car, with the tinted windows in back. Instinctively, she thrust her key in the BMW’s ignition, about to start the engine. But the town car had stopped, blocking her way out. In the mirror, she saw the black car’s rear door swing open. Carrying his attaché case, that permanent extension of himself, Daniels was getting out of the town car, striding to the passenger’s side of the BMW. Unaware that she’d meant to do it, she swung her own door open, got out of the car. Was she escaping? No, she couldn’t leave the BMW, not with her stash in its trunk. Across the roof of the BMW, she faced her stepfather. The town car was moving away, leaving them alone.
“Where’re you going?” Daniels’s voice was flat, his CEO’s voice. But his eyes were different. Here—now—his eyes were different. It was as if, for the first time, he was really looking at her. Really seeing her.
“You can ask my mother where I’m going. She’ll tell you. On the way to the party, when you’re having your little chitchat, she’ll tell you where I’m going.”
“What little chitchat is that?”
“You’ll find out. It’s about last night. I told her to ask you about last night.”
Still facing each other across the roof of the car, she saw his eyes change again: murderous eyes, cold and steady and deadly, boring in, impaling her. Thank God for the car, her shield.
His voice was hardly more than a whisper: “Where were you last night, Diane?”
“I—” Her throat closed. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t reply.
“Were you on the Cape last night?”
She was shaking her head, involuntarily backing away. But her buttocks touched a car in the next parking stall. If he came for her, she would move in the opposite direction, keeping the BMW between them. When she was a child, it had been her first hint of power, keeping the dining room table between her and her mother, avoiding a spanking.
But Daniels wasn’t coming for her. Instead, still speaking very softly, he asked, “Were you with Jeff Weston last night, on the Cape?”
“I—I—” Even if she could speak, she couldn’t have found the words. God, it had started as a spaced-out prank, trick or treat, Halloween in July. Did he know that? Should she tell him?
“You were there.” It wasn’t a question; it was a calm, calculated statement. He knew. Looking at her face, he knew.
She saw him draw a deep, decisive breath, then glance down at his watch. Preston Daniels and his watch, the inseparable duo. How much was a minute of his time worth? It was a problem for a computer. His net worth, someone had said, was more than some small countries.
When he spoke, his voice was dispassionate: “I’ve got to change. I’m running late.” He let a beat pass, his eyes locked with hers. Then, very softly: “We’ll talk later. In the meantime, don’t talk about this. To anyone.”
Without waiting for a reply, he picked up his attaché case, turned his back on her, walked quickly, decisively, to the elevator.