“There’s a few things I could use.”
“Make a list, get it to me, and I’ll have someone bring them by later. I’ll call you tonight.”
Jarocki saw them out, while Zo? remained in the bedroom. Jarocki’s home probably held a special meaning for him, but to her, the place seemed cold and uninviting. She felt tired and alone. The Tally Man was tearing her life apart again. Maybe she should just let him finish the job and kill her. At least it would be over.
Jarocki reappeared in the doorway. “I was going to make some coffee—want some?”
“Sure.”
She followed him into the kitchen. He put a pan of water on to boil and tossed coffee grounds into a large French press.
“So, this is the family estate.”
He looked around the place and smiled. “Not quite. It’s the family home. My parents left it to my two brothers and me. We never had the heart to sell the place because it held so many memories, like family Christmases and Dad pointlessly trying to teach us how to pitch, so we hung on to it. We let friends stay here, my brothers use it when they visit, and I sometimes come out here to work when I need a little seclusion.”
She imagined his childhood. From the way he talked and the house’s ’50s-throwback look, it sounded Norman Rockwell idyllic. She didn’t resent his upbringing. It sounded no different than hers—until the Tally Man. There was a home like this waiting for her, with parents who cared, but she’d turned her back on them. She pushed the image from her thoughts.
Jarocki made the coffee and showed her into the living room. She stretched out on the sofa, feeling every one of her injuries again. The doctor had sent her home with pain meds, but she wasn’t taking them. She wanted her full wits about her. Jarocki sat kitty-corner to her in a lounger, with his back to the window.
“What happens now?” she asked.
“Whatever you want. I’m here at your disposal.”
“I don’t need a babysitter.”
“That’s fine. If you want to be alone, this house is yours for as long as you need it, but if you prefer company, I can stick around. I’ve canceled my appointments for today, and I can work from here. I will have to go into my office to see patients, but I can be here the rest of the time. Would you like me to stay?”
She didn’t know. She wasn’t sure what she wanted, so she remained silent.
“Don’t decide now. Think about it.”
“Why are you going to this trouble?”
He put down his coffee mug and clasped his hands together. “You’re my patient. You need help and support, and I’m in a position to provide that.”
She should have said thank you, but she didn’t. She hated being indebted to people, relying on their help. It was probably why she didn’t like this house. It was a big reminder that she couldn’t do this alone.
“How are you feeling?”
“Sore.” The stiffness she felt from the pummeling she’d taken wasn’t much different from the morning-after feeling she had after a tough self-defense class. Her throat was a different matter. When she touched her neck, she could feel the ghost of the Tally Man’s fingers deep under the surface of her skin, as deep as her soul.
“Do you want to talk about what happened last night?”
The question sounded as if it came without strings, but she felt them dangling in the air. This wasn’t just a general inquiry. “You want to turn this into a session?”
Jarocki raised his hands and smiled. “We’re here, aren’t we?”
Marshall Beck returned to the scene of the crime—Zo?’s apartment building. Was it a crime? It was more like the scene of a public service. His only crime was his failure to capture her. This was the second time she’d gotten away from him. He needed to get it right next time. She had to be punished.
He’d come back here on his way into the office, the morning following the scuffle, and found cops still milling around. They were still there at lunchtime, when he dropped by again, though their presence had been reduced to a single squad car parked on the street. Now it was after five, and there was no squad car, although his instincts told him the old Intrepid parked in the spot where the cop car had sat was a plant.
He made a casual pass by the sedan, noting that the guy sitting in the passenger seat looked bored. Could he really just be waiting for someone? The big test was time. How long does someone sit in the passenger seat of a parked car? Thirty minutes? An hour? Two? No, if you’re waiting for a friend, you don’t hang out in your car for more than thirty minutes. Any longer than that, and you go looking for your friend.
He could be patient. Precision work like his made you patient. After ninety minutes, the man in the Intrepid remained where he was.
“You’re a cop, my friend,” he murmured to himself from the quiet of his Honda.