5
Cahill went to bed but couldn’t sleep after the call with Boston. He pulled back the covers and swung his feet out of the bed, listening to the steady rise and fall of Sam’s breathing beside him. He turned and put a hand on her shoulder, feeling her skin warm under his fingers. Her breath hitched and went back to its steady rhythm.
He went down to his study and called Melanie Stark. It was early evening in Kansas. He had no idea what he was going to say to her.
‘Alex,’ she said, her voice a flat monotone.
‘How are you holding up?’
‘You know …’ She faded into silence.
Cahill did know.
‘It takes time,’ was what he said.
A cliché. Still, it was true.
‘Why are you calling? It must be late there.’
Cahill looked at the clock on his desk. ‘It’s after one. But that doesn’t matter, I was working anyway. Have you spoken any more to the police or anyone else?’
‘No. There’s no reason to, is there? Tim’s dead. That’s what you told me.’
‘But don’t you want to know why, or what he was doing on that plane?’
‘I thought I did. But I’m not so sure any more. What good would it do? I mean, what if I find out he was mixed up in something … bad? Then what?’
‘That won’t happen. I know Tim.’
‘Maybe nobody really knew him.’
‘Melanie …’
‘Bye, Alex.’
He sat at his desk, clenching and unclenching his fists, wanting to hit something. He’d known too many people who had died. And he couldn’t shake the anger he felt about this. About what they were doing to the memory of a good man. And his family.
He didn’t like not knowing. Hated being lied to and bullied, which was how he felt now after the call from Boston. It wasn’t just Melanie Stark’s problem now. It was his.
And maybe he would make it someone else’s problem.