Witt’s brow creased as if she’d offended him. “Cops have finesse.”
Max rolled her eyes. They stood within the small confines of the fiche viewing area, voices low, both gazes on the woman bustling behind the counter at the far end of the library. With the end of the school day, the place had filled up, the noise level rising with laughter, gossiping voices, and the almost constant shushing from the three librarians.
“We’ll lose her,” Witt said close to her ear.
“I can’t walk up and ask her where Cordelia is.” She’d work her way into it, make friends with the woman. She still had to tell her about Cameron since it was unlikely she knew of his death. After all, the only letter Max sent had been returned undelivered. First things first, and with that thought came the dread. How did you tell someone their nephew, brother, son, or husband was dead?
“I’m thinking, I’m thinking.” She pushed Witt away with the flat of her hand on his hard stomach. She couldn’t think with him so close. Keeping her hand where it landed wasn’t such a hot idea either. Okay, it was too hot. God, she was losing control here.
“I’m thinking, too,” he whispered, pointedly looking down.
She snatched her hand away as if scorched. Then, as an afterthought, she said, “I’ve got it.” Actually, she’d had the plan all along. It was a matter of recognizing it for what it was. “We’ll set up an appointment with her. I’ll tell her about Cameron—”
“Tell her what about your husband?”
From the widening of his eyes, she could almost believe Witt thought she referred to Cameron’s current haunting of her. The truth was a bit worse. The gentle flush of shame stained her face. “About him being dead.”
“You never told his family?”
“I—” She stopped. What could she say? She’d made a half-hearted attempt. Because it was her duty. Then she’d dropped it because the pain had been too great. And because Cameron wasn’t really gone. “I didn’t know where they were at the time”—pause, no period—“and I didn’t try very hard to find them.”
She stood slightly in front and to his left. At the other end of the room, Evelyn Hastings adjusted her cat’s-eyes glasses, made a notation on something in front of her, then turned with a smile to a teenage boy standing at her counter. Max held the fiche screen print in her hand. She owed a nickel. Witt’s hand settled on her waist, warm, comforting, understanding.
“I should have found her, but I didn’t.” Though she said the words, they were for herself.
“Couldn’t,” he said. “Big difference there.”
Cameron had never blamed her either. She’d always been the one hardest on herself in most respects. Then again, she’d always been a chicken in most respects, too.
“I have to pay for the print screen.” She left Witt behind her. Some things you had to do alone.
The first and second assistants behind the counter asked if they could help her. She waited for Evelyn.
“Did you find what you were looking for, dear?”
“Yes.” Max pushed the now rumpled paper across the counter, facing Evelyn, easily readable. “I owe you a nickel.” She placed the silver coin on the corner.
Evelyn read. Her cheek pulled in, and her jaw slid sideways as if she’d bitten down. Her eyes widened behind her lenses. She took the coin and plopped it in a container under the counter. Max heard the tinkle of its landing amongst the other change.
“Thank you.” The woman’s polite words were barely audible.
Max waited. Witt was near; she smelled his aftershave. The rustle of backpacks and jackets went on behind her. Tittering teenage girls sat at a nearby table. Plastic boots squeaked on the tile entryway. The clock over Evelyn’s head declared the five o’clock hour almost nigh, but its second hand seemed not to move.
Max swallowed past that lump in her throat. “My married name is Max Starr. I came to talk with you about your nephew.” Then she added what she should have when she approached. “I’m sorry about your father. I’m sorry about showing you that ... paper all over again.” She told the truth, Witt witnessing her inadequacies. “I didn’t know how else to tell you who I am.”
You could have said you were my wife, Cameron whispered in her head. You could have told her somewhere other than here.
He was right. Then again, Max had wanted to see the reaction; cruel, but, in her mind, necessary. The problem was, psychic or not, she couldn’t figure out what Evelyn’s reaction meant.
Most people would have asked what Max wanted to talk about. Most people would have either accepted or rejected Max’s apology. Evelyn Hastings merely stared at the print screen of her father’s obituary, her face wiped clean of all expression, her touch almost reverent on the sheet of paper.
“Could we make an appointment for tomorrow?” Max offered.