He raised a hand to catch the waiter’s attention. “I’ve got to meet with Dick. You want to come?” Gone was the man who’d retreated into himself after Tiffany Wharton’s death, his stress hitting manic levels. This man was the Tobey of old, one I hadn’t seen in years.
Go to the stadium? If I see you, I will touch you. “Oh, I can’t.” I gave my best regretful smile. “I’ve got a bunch of donations I’ve got to drop off at the Club.”
“Missing your chance to gloat over our record?” He grinned. “This is a prime opportunity to rub our record in Dick’s face. Stern’s proven to be a game changer for us.”
A game changer for us. I suddenly felt sick to my stomach. “Dick chose Stern,” I reminded him. “I didn’t do anything other than push for Perkins to leave.”
“Being modest?” Tobey arched a brow at me. “Who are you, and what have you done with my wife?”
His wife. He thought he knew me. And in some ways, he did. In a thousand other ways, we were still strangers. From the beginning, I’d kept so much from him. Yet he’d still fallen in love with the shell of me. Our waiter saved me, his offer to refill my drink distracting enough to change the course of our conversation.
We stood as one, Tobey’s hand soft on my back as we walked out. “Do you want me to come by the house and pick you up for the game?”
“No.” I shook my head. “I’ll have one of the drivers take me. Meet you in the box?”
“Sure.” He leaned down, brushing his lips over mine. “See you around six?”
I nodded, flashing him a smile, and reached for my valet ticket, handing it to the man, the escape to my vehicle quick, my lips still burning from his kiss.
“It was a detective, David Thorpe, who tied the first two girls to Julie Gavin. He created a profile on Julie and then compared it to every unsolved murder, going back five years. Once he’d connected Rachel and April to Julie, and the word ‘serial killer’ started to be thrown around, the attention on the case exploded. And that’s when the pressure on the team, and on Ty and Tobey, really started.”
Dan Velacruz, New York Times
92
“I don’t have a lot of time for this.” Tobey glanced at his watch, the gold piece glinting in the dim light of his office.
“It won’t take long,” the man’s voice was gravel, a familiar one heard often in the last few years. Detective Thorpe. The man who came to us about Julie Gavin, then again the afternoon I found Tiffany Wharton. The man who now stood before us, his hands tucked in cheap suit pockets, and tilted his head at me. “This is about you, Mrs. Grant.”
“Me?” I met his eyes.
“With the season wrapping up, we’d like you to arrange for extra security. Just in case.”
“You think Ty’s in danger?” Tobey stepped forward, his hand possessive as it touched the small of my back, his fingers burning through the fabric of my silk shirt.
“With the girls being blonde, and similar to Mrs. Grant, that is reason enough for concern. But each death seems to be getting closer to both of you.”
“You’re assuming he’s going to kill again,” Tobey said flatly. “Maybe he won’t.”
“Extra security wouldn’t hurt. Especially on game nights. It looks like you’ll be in the playoffs—”
“We will.” There was a note of pride in Tobey’s voice that I wanted to erase. It didn’t belong here, not in this moment.
“But it’d be good for the security to start now. We can provide deputies but figured that you’d have your own security team.”
Tobey nodded curtly. “Yes. And we can hire additional resources if necessary.”
Any thoughts of sneaking away to see Chase disappeared. I pasted a smile and nodded in agreement. “Thank you for the warning.” I didn’t want more security. For the same reason that I’d insisted on Titan. My freedom, my independence—even before Chase—was crucial, an ingredient for my sanity.
“It’s odd,” Margreta said, lifting her wine glass and peering at me over the edge.
“What is?” I took the bait, not particularly interested in the answer. I flipped a page of the magazine, watching as Caleb ran by with a shriek, his hands outstretched for the dog. Behind us, their pool glinted in the late afternoon sun.
“You and Tobey, how much time you spend apart.”
I raised my eyebrows at the woman, one whose husband made business trips at every spare opportunity. “We work together,” I pointed out. “Every day.” Ten hour days, focused on the team, the players, the marketing, the machine. I didn’t mind it. I loved it, loved the focus it required. I could get lost in those details, in that goal.
“I know that.” She waved her hand, like my time at the Yankees was nothing. “I’m talking about outside of the team. Don’t you think a husband and wife should share something other than baseball?”