Elizabeth looked at the faces around her. They believed this was helping her. In fact, it was making her feel worse.
“Sure. I could do that,” she said just to end her turn. “It’d probably be fun to paint again.”
She thought the women were going to start break-dancing.
Except for Kim, who sat there, dressed in her mournful black, staring at Elizabeth through knowing eyes.
FOUR
For the next week, Jack and Sally spent eighteen-hour days following the story. They got to the office early—Jack left home long before the sun had risen—and stayed late. Twice, he’d even slept on the couch in his office.
They’d interviewed dozens of people, tracked down countless leads, and tried to bullshit their way past closed doors.
Innuendo, anecdote, gossip—these they had found in abundance. By all accounts, Drew was a sleazy, not-too-bright young man who had an exceedingly high opinion of himself, an almost total disregard for other people’s feelings, and an unshakable belief that society’s rules didn’t apply to him. In other words, he was a real pain in the ass.
He was also Oregon’s brightest collegiate athlete, the best state basketball player in two decades. Speculation was high that he could lead the down-on-their-luck Panthers to their first ever NCAA championship season.
It was hardly surprising that no one in Panther athletics would talk to them—not even to issue a no comment. The basketball coach had been unavailable all week. And no one seemed to have seen the incident with the girl except Sally’s sister. In short, they had no proof. No one liked Drew Grayland, it was clear, but no one would say anything on the record.
After another fruitless day, Jack and Sally went to a local steakhouse for dinner. They sat in a back booth where it was dimly lit and quiet.
“What now?” Sally asked.
Jack looked up from the notes spread out across the table. He was surprised to find that the place was almost empty. When they’d come in for dinner, every table had been full. “I think it’s time for another drink.” He raised a hand, flagged down the waitress.
She hurried over, pulled a pencil out from above her ear. “What can I get for you, Mr. Shore?”
Jack smiled tiredly, wishing—for once—that he hadn’t been recognized. He felt like getting drunk. “Dewar’s on the rocks.”
“Margarita rocks, no salt,” Sally said.
The waitress returned a few moments later with the drinks.
Jack sipped his, staring down at the notes again. He’d been staring at them for an hour, trying to glean something he’d missed. Someone to whom he hadn’t spoken. But there was no one. He couldn’t figure out where in the hell to go from here. All he knew for sure was that he’d failed. Again. This time, he’d taken bright-eyed Sally down with him. “Henry will be back from Australia tomorrow. Maybe you should take the story to him.”
“We’ll nail this story, Jack. You and me.”
Her confidence never seemed to waver. Throughout all the dead ends and no comments, she’d kept believing in Jack. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had had such faith in him.
He looked at her. Even now, when things were going so badly, her black eyes shone with optimism. And why not? She was twenty-six years old. Life was just beginning for her; it would be years before she learned the tarry taste of disappointment.
At her age, he’d been the same way. After three stellar years at the UW, and that amazing Heisman win, he’d been a first-round draft pick—to a loser team who needed him desperately. Behind an ineffective line, he’d had to run his ass off just to stay alive, but he’d worked hard and played his heart out. Three years later, the Jets picked him up.
That had been the first of his Golden Years.
In the fourth game of his first New York season, the starting quarterback had gotten hurt, and Jack’s moment had come. He threw three touchdown passes in that game. By the end of that season, no one remembered the name of the quarterback he’d replaced. Jumpin’ Jack Flash had been born. Crowds chanted his name; cameras flashed wherever he went. He led his team to back-to-back Super Bowl wins. It was the stuff of which legends were made. For years, he’d been a superstar. A hero.
Then he’d been hit.
Game over. Career ended.
“Jack?” Sally’s voice pulled him back into the smoky bar. For a second there, he’d been gone. “What happened to you?”
He sighed. Here it comes.
“When I was a little girl—”
Oh, good.