Vic Denardo didn't even glance at Zoe, who'd bent down to examine a new hibiscus blossom. He kept his eyes pinned on Annie. "Tell Sarah I'll be seeing her."
Annie said nothing, afraid another stubborn denial—another lie —would make him snap. And if he didn't, she just might.
"Tell her."
Without any warning, he pivoted on his heels and marched up the narrow walk out to Union Street. He would look out of place among the expensive shops, the pretty Victorian and Edwardian buildings, but he didn't seem to give a damn.
He only wanted to find Sarah Linwood.
Zoe stopped in the doorway and glanced back, her brow furrowing in sudden concern. "What was that all about?"
Annie grimaced. "Nothing. Really."
"You sure? You're ashen, Annie. You should see yourself—"
"I'm fine."
"Bullshit," Zoe said softly.
Annie balled her shaking hands into tight fists, adrenaline setting her knees wobbling now that the immediate crisis of Vic Denardo's presence was over. For a brief moment she thought she might even faint.
Zoe touched her arm. "Annie..."
I can't fall apart, she told herself. I can't Bracing herself, she swung around at Zoe. "I need to run an errand. Help yourself to the coffee and muffins. I'll be back."
"When?"
"I don't know, maybe an hour."
"Look, I'm not into prying information out of my friends, but I have a feeling this is about that damned painting you bought at the auction. Annie, for God's sake—you're a wreck." But when Annie started to reassure her, Zoe cut her off with an adamant shake of her head, and with a rush of emotion, Annie realized she had her first real friend in San Francisco. "No, don't explain. Go on and do what you have to do. Take your time. I've got someone in today. I can look after the gallery for a couple of hours."
"Zoe, I wouldn't ask you—"
"I know you wouldn't. Now go on." She managed a grin despite the worry in her eyes. "I'm just trying to get your muffin off you."
Annie tried to smile back but knew she hadn't quite pulled it off. "You're welcome to it. Thanks, Zoe. I owe you. I'll leave Otto here, if it's all right with you, just in case that man comes back. If he does, just sic Otto on him—and call the police, okay?"
"Consider it done," Zoe said dryly, without enthusiasm, a thousand questions in her dark eyes.
Annie had to walk back up to her apartment for her car, but the exercise helped steady her. It was bright and clear and stunningly beautiful driving out over the Golden Gate Bridge, and she found herself fighting tears, wishing for a life that wasn't hers. Her tiny apartment, her struggling gallery, her tenuous hold on San Francisco. She'd tried so hard to make them enough. But now, with the sun glistening on the blue waters of the bay, with a man wanted for questioning in two five-year-old murders harassing her, she couldn't seem to stop herself from wanting more. A husband, children, a sense of belonging—things she'd dared not admit wanting.
"Damn," she mumbled under her breath, maneuvering through the picturesque streets of Marin. She sniffled, brushed tears off her cheeks with her fingertips. She hated feeling sorry for herself. It never got her anywhere but right back where she'd started. She was an optimist with a strong pragmatic streak. She didn't wallow, and she didn't whine.
But as she followed the pretty, sun-drenched road out of Sausalito, she couldn't remember ever feeling so alone.
She turned down the narrow, winding road to Garvin's marina, saw boats and men and a couple of women, two scroungy black dogs, a swarm of seagulls. But no Garvin. Annie swung through the parking lot, her hands tight on the steering wheel as she searched for his car. It wasn't there. She had no idea if he was at home or off sailing. She had no idea, really, she thought, how Garvin MacCrae spent his days.
She left the marina, not even sure if she wanted to see him, or why she'd come there instead of immediately calling the police after Vic Denardo had gone. She wasn't thinking straight, and that scared her. Taking deep, cleansing breaths, she headed up to Belvedere. She needed a clear head, and she needed a plan.
She made only one wrong turn before pulling alongside Garvin's front walk. She'd see if he was home. If he was, she'd tell him about her visit from Vic Denardo and her intention of calling the police. If he wasn't, she'd stop back at the marina, tell Michael Yuma, who could then tell Garvin, and head back to San Francisco and make the call.
There, she thought. A plan.
Feeling calmer, she climbed out of her car and started down the walk to Garvin's front door. The air smelled clean and pleasantly cool, cooler than the city. The squirrels were up to their antics in the trees and greenery. Everything was so quiet, so still.
"He's not here."
She spun around, shock nearly collapsing her to her knees.
Vic Denardo sauntered down the walkway. "No doggie with you this time, kiddo?"
She took in a shallow, ragged breath. "Did you follow me?"
"Nope. Beat you here."