“Okay.”
He says he needs to retrieve his car and sprints down the sidewalk, yelling over his shoulder that he’ll be back in two minutes. I stand there alone, letting my weight fall on my crutches. The Tylenol they gave me in the ER has started to wear off, and my ankle is throbbing again, a nasty reminder of the morning.
A shadow crosses the sidewalk, and when I look up I discover, to my shock, that Guy is standing there. He’s got his suit jacket off and his shirtsleeves rolled. His face is haggard and pale, as if it’s been drained of blood. Not a look I’ve ever seen on him, not even at his mother’s funeral.
“Bryn,” he says, and stops three feet away from me. “Please tell me you’re okay.
“Just go away, Guy.”
“I know a little about what went on today. I’m so sorry and ashamed. If anything had ever happened to you . . .”
“Oh, please. You didn’t think your actions would have consequences?”
“I never meant to hurt you, Bryn. I felt at a loss this spring. I didn’t seem to be able to help you.”
He’s so slick, I think once more about him. No wonder he was so good at seducing donors.
“I said go away, Guy. I don’t want anything to do with you anymore.”
“But . . .”
“If you say another word, I’m going to yell for the cops.”
He sets his mouth, turns, and walks up Lake Avenue, his shoulders sagging. I sense a worm of bitterness eager to work its way into my heart, but I refuse to let it.
I’m alive, after all. I took a crazy, absurd dive down a laundry chute and survived.
Chapter 26
Almost four weeks later, on a bright July day, Derek meets me, as planned, in the parking lot of the Saratoga National Historical Park, the site of the Revolutionary War battlefield and about twenty minutes from the city of Saratoga Springs. I’ve come in a new rental car, one I picked up for my trip north. I’m living back in Manhattan now, and my plan is to be in this area for forty-eight hours tops.
As much as I tried to tamp down my anxiety, I ended up with a pit in my stomach from the moment I pulled onto the New York State Thruway yesterday afternoon. Shortly before I left Saratoga, Lisa Wallins, a.k.a. Sandra Dowd, was charged with the murders of both Eve Blazer and Miranda Kane. Though in the case of Miranda, the cops have, in addition to my statement, only circumstantial evidence against Lisa, DNA evidence has fortunately tied her to the ax that killed Eve. The district attorney and I have spoken several times on the phone during the past weeks, but she was eager for an in-depth, face-to-face meeting. That’s where I was this morning, with Tina next to me.
There’s another reason I wanted to make the trip north, and that’s to spend time with Derek. We grabbed dinner one night before I left Saratoga—after I was able to confirm his reason for speaking to Eve in the kitchen—but I was still so crazed from everything that had happened, I’d barely been able to focus on him. Despite all the upheaval still in my life, I feel far less fatigued now and I’ve been looking forward to this afternoon. Derek was the one who suggested a picnic at the battlefield.
Derek is already in the parking lot when I arrive, dressed in jeans and a heather-green T-shirt and leaning against his car in the sunshine. The sight of him fills me with even more pleasure than I anticipated.
“You still up for this?” he asks after we’ve hugged hello. I can smell the almond-scented soap he’s showered with.
“Absolutely.”
“And your ankle can handle it?”
“Yup, all better,” I say, smiling. “I’ll be fine as long as your plan calls for more picnic than tour.”
“You got it.”
He grabs a tote bag from his car and we set out, meandering across the wildflower-studded grounds, bordered by lush farmland and, in the far distance, blue-green mountains. It’s an exquisite day. Though the sun’s high in the sky, the humidity is low, and there’s a light, lovely breeze.
Derek shares some of what he knows about the clash of armies here, which was actually two battles a couple of days apart. The scrappy colonial militia managed to outsmart the brilliant British army, profoundly altering the world. I feel more than a twinge of sadness as I think of the lives lost in this place, and the loneliness the British soldiers must have endured from being so many thousands of miles from their homes, knowing they might never see their families again.
After about twenty minutes, we reach a secluded spot with a view of the gleaming Hudson River, so much smaller here than in New York City, and Derek suggests we park ourselves for the picnic. From the tote bag he pulls out a small chenille blanket for us to sit on, a couple of sandwiches wrapped in butcher’s paper, and two bottles of sparking water. Saratoga Spring Water, actually. And then some Saratoga potato chips.