He shook his paper cup of change in front of her. The clumsily lettered cardboard sign he held read: Please share. Below that: In pain. Jane turned her head and murmured, “No, thank you.”
Mark pulled a wallet from the messenger bag, drew out a couple of singles, and stuffed them into the beggar’s cup. The old guy grunted, then shuffled away to take a seat behind the statue.
“You realize he’ll probably drink that donation,” Jane said.
Mark shrugged. He pushed up his glasses and resumed paging through his book, stopping to spend an extra second or two at each illustration. When he lifted his head again, he asked, “Why here?” He gestured at the bronze Alice sitting atop a giant mushroom, her cat Dinah in her lap. “And why the book? Any special significance?”
She bunched her sweater’s neckline. “Why do you care?”
“Sorry.” He lifted both hands. “Didn’t mean to touch a nerve. Again. Two adults, same time, same place, same book. Seems like one heck of a coincidence. I know why I’m here. I was curious about you.”
“Why are you here?” she asked.
“Birthday, if you must know,” he said with a grin. “I took the day off from work to do something special for myself.”
“Happy birthday,” she said with little warmth.
He nodded.
“Is sitting in Central Park with Alice the best ‘something special’ you could come up with?” she asked.
“This year, it is.” He turned a few more pages. “I’m making myself a gift of good memories.”
“So you’re here to recapture your childhood?”
“Something like that. Can’t help thinking about my dad today. He didn’t always know how to connect with his children. But, man, give him a book to read aloud, and the guy turned into a Shakespearean actor with a deep baritone voice. Of course, as a kid, I didn’t know what a Shakespearean actor was or what baritone meant—but I can still hear him now.” He lifted his copy of Alice. “This book was his favorite.” Jane smoothed her pixie cut as though tucking it behind an ear. “Is your father … gone?”
“Late last year,” he said.
“I’m sorry.”
Mark lifted his chin toward the statue where the day-care kids clambered and crawled. “He used to bring us here when we were kids. And read to us. I can’t help but associate this place with him.”
Jane remained quiet.
Still staring at the kids, Mark said, “This is the first birthday since—” He gave himself a quick shake. “Enough of my melancholy reflections. Tell me what brings you here. I hope your reason is happier than mine.”
Jane took her time before answering. “I don’t know why I’m here. Not really.” She glanced down at the book in her lap, then up at the statue, then at Mark. “I guess the best explanation I can give you is that I came here today for closure.”
“That doesn’t sound happy.”
She looked away. “You know how you always hear about criminals returning to the scene of the crime?”
“Yes.”
“How come you never hear about the victims? Nobody talks about their pain—their need to return.”
“Oh, I see,” he said in a breath. “I’m sorry to hear it. If you don’t mind me asking, what happened? Sometimes talking to a stranger can help.”
“I thought you said you weren’t strange.”
“Good catch.” He smiled. “So, maybe I lied about my pickup lines.”
“Not going to work on me, sorry.”
“Fair enough. Forget all that. No silly games. As I’m sure you’ve noticed, I can talk your ear off. But I’m a good listener, too.”
Four times Jane smoothed the side of her pixie, tucking nonexistent hair behind her ear. She bit her lip.
Mark cleared his throat. “Central Park is pretty safe most of the time, and this spot tends to be busy with kids and tourists.” He waited a beat. “But obviously it isn’t safe enough. Not if you were injured … or hurt … here.”
“Not me.” She shook her head and ran her fingers up and down the book’s edges. “Do you remember the young woman who was murdered in the park a year ago?”
“Someone was murdered?” His brows came together. “Here?”
Jane pulled in a shuddering breath. “This is hard for me.”
“Take your time.”
“I’m surprised you don’t remember. The story got massive coverage because her father was some bigwig in the police department.”
“Oh, wait,” he said. “I do recall hearing about that. That was a particularly brutal crime, wasn’t it?”
Jane nodded.
“They never caught the guy, did they?”
Jane shook her head.
“I take it you knew her?” Mark asked. “Was she a friend? She wasn’t your sister, was she?”
Taking another hard breath, Jane clenched her eyes shut. When she opened them again, she whispered, “I loved her.”
“Oh,” Mark said. He stroked his beard, glancing from side to side. “You mean—”
“Yeah, I mean what you think I mean. I was in love with her.”
“I don’t remember her name,” Mark said. “I’m sorry.”
Jane’s body drew in on itself. “Samantha.”