Most people would ask to hear now. Not Evelyn Hastings. “Tomorrow,” she echoed, then her voice dropped. “Tomorrow.”
They were the center of attention at the counter. The other two librarians, both ladies of Evelyn’s approximate age, looked on with concern, heedless of others waiting their turn for questions. Impatient feet shuffled behind her.
Then Evelyn’s head popped up. “Would ten o’clock in the morning be all right?”
“Yes,” Max answered quickly as if Evelyn might rip the meeting from her grasp.
“Come to my house. I’ll give you directions.” A pad of paper appeared, and a pencil worked in Evelyn’s nimble fingers. They were not the hands of a seventy-something-year-old woman—no age spots, no crippling arthritic joints, relatively few wrinkles. She wrote with those long, elegant fingers. Cameron’s fingers. And there it was, the resemblance, all in the hands.
*
She had an early dinner with Witt. He’d asked only necessary questions during the meal, forgone the sexual banter he loved, then dropped her off at her room with little more than a peck on the cheek. The drone of his TV wafted through the connecting door, the news, she assumed. The guy was intuitive, she’d say that for him, having the sense to leave her alone for a little rumination.
“What’s your plan?” Cameron, a soft voice in the room.
The plan wasn’t really a plan. Max would do what she’d been obligated—and failed—to do two years ago. She would tell Evelyn her nephew had died. She would tell her how it had happened. Then she’d ask how to get in touch with his mother and his sister.
“Why do you feel bad about this?”
She didn’t know. “Don’t you feel bad?”
Jesus, you’d think he’d feel something. It was his aunt.
“I ... it was years ago. I stopped thinking about my aunt long before I even met you.”
She struggled to understand his lack of emotion versus her overabundance of it.
“It’s like looking at a stranger,” he finished.
Max knew he had no memory of actual events before his death. He’d told her that often enough. He had only the emotions. Why was he hiding them now?
“My emotions are about you, Max. The rest...” He let the sentence hang in the air.
Yes, he told her he didn’t remember. Yes, he focused on her. But there were moments when she felt so much more was going on than she understood, as if not only the visions led her, but Cameron himself. Cameron with a higher purpose he wouldn’t divulge.
Something pulsed in the air around him, something pale yet distinctly red. Anger? Anticipation? Excitement? Thrill of the hunt?
“You’re not telling me everything,” she said.
“I’m telling you all I can.”
“All you will.”
“The phone’s flashing. You’ve got a message.” His way of changing the subject. His way of telling her she wouldn’t get another thing from him.
When she checked, the message was from Sunny Wright, her boss, owner of the temp agency Max worked out of. “Why the hell would Sunny call?”
She couldn’t say she was good friends with Sunny. These days she couldn’t say she was good friends with anyone, unless she counted Sutter, whom Max had dropped for two years after Cameron’s death. Not much of a recommendation there.
But Sunny had phoned, leaving a cryptic message telling Max to call back ASAP, underscored by her tone. Max had told her she’d be out of town for a few days. She’d even given her the hotel name in case she never came back, in case someone somewhere cared what had happened to her. Sunny was thorough. If Max didn’t check back in, Sunny would follow up. But call Max using that tone? Something was wrong.
Six-thirty in Michigan, it would be three-thirty back in California, and Sunny would still be in the office. Max dialed.
“How’s the sun out there, Max?” Sunny asked with her effervescent voice.
“They don’t know the meaning of sun out here in the middle of November.” She paused for a breath. “Why’d you call, Sunny?”
“A man came by looking for you.” The bright voice faded with the news.
A man? Looking for her? “Was he late twenties, dark hair, and gorgeous?”
“No. He was in his sixties, gray hair, and distinguished.”
Holy shit. She managed to keep the words silent. Sunny wasn’t big on cursing. She squinted when anyone else did. But this knowledge deserved it. “Did he tell you his name?”
“No.” Sunny paused. “And I asked, several times. He wasn’t forthcoming.”
“Did you tell him where I was?”
Sunny snorted. “I do know the meaning of confidentiality.” Max had never told Sunny to keep her whereabouts quiet. After a pause, Sunny said, “You know who he is, don’t you.”
It hadn’t been a question. The fact that Max didn’t confirm was answer enough. “Something bothered you about him.”
“He was ... smarmy.”