As I drive, I force myself to stay focused on the streets and be alert to the endless stop signs, but my mind keeps snaking back to the urgency in Maycock’s voice. I fear that on the other side of the morning, there’s a story waiting for me, and once I hear it, my life won’t be the same.
After pulling into the parking lot of the opera company, I take a few minutes to compose myself. The last thing I want to do is give Miranda a hint that there’s anything wrong, so I can’t tear in there like a she-wolf. And maybe nothing really is wrong. I have to wait to hear Guy’s explanation.
The building is open today, so I don’t have to worry about gaining access. I enter through the side door and make my way along the nearly empty corridor to Guy’s office. I take a deep breath before tapping the door frame and stepping into the anteroom.
Miranda is standing by the file cabinets, a folder in hand and her mouth pinched in concentration. She’s wearing a brown-and-white wrap dress that shows off a hint of cleavage and accentuates her curvy hips. Her red hair is tucked back behind her ears as if she’s been at her work full bore today.
After catching a glimpse of me, her lips part in surprise. This is my second unannounced appearance in about a week, which she’s got to find curious.
“Morning, Miranda,” I say. “Is Guy here?”
“Oh, Bryn, hi . . . No, he’s actually gone out.”
“Do you know where? I need to reach him and he’s not picking up his cell.” That’s a lie, of course, but I don’t want to call Guy first and have him surmise from my tone that something’s up. I want to confront him, face-to-face, and read his body language.
Miranda’s back straightens, and I sense that protective vibe from her, the same one I detected on the phone the other day. She’s Guy’s person, and in her view there’s certain information I may not be privy to, including his whereabouts this morning. For the first time I find myself wondering if Guy has had his eye on her.
“Unfortunately he didn’t say. Is there anything I can help with?”
Her response seems genuine, suggesting that the Maycock appointment definitely isn’t related to opera company business.
“Did he mention when he’d be back?”
She drops the file into the drawer and slides it shut. “He didn’t, no. But it shouldn’t be too long. He has appointments here late in the morning.”
“No problem. I’ll figure it out.”
“You sure I can’t help?” My attempt at a breezy “No problem” probably hasn’t fooled her, but I can’t worry about that now. I offer a rushed good-bye and take off.
Back in the car, I spend several minutes thinking through my next move. Guy might already be at the police station, and it would be foolish of me to turn up there. If I’m lucky, he’s at the law firm. I Google directions and take off.
The law offices turn out to be in a large white clapboard house less than a mile away, and as I approach, I instantly spot Guy’s BMW. My pulse starts to race from both trepidation and red-hot anger. Guy must have driven home from the restaurant last night fretting over this meeting and lain in bed losing sleep over it. And yet he never breathed a freaking word about it to me.
I pull in two spaces behind the BMW. My first urge is to storm in there, but I squelch it, praying there’s still a chance I’m reading the whole thing wrong. Instead, I twist in my seat, giving me a view of the building, and wait for Guy to emerge. Five minutes past, then ten. I turn on the radio, hoping the music will soothe me, but it’s like nails on a blackboard and I finally shut it off.
It’s a good forty-five minutes before Guy swings open the door of the building and steps onto the stoop, raking his hair with his free hand. Before descending the steps he glances in both directions on the street, perhaps making sure no one he knows has spotted him. His face is wrinkled in worry, not a familiar look on him.
I wait until he’s reached the main sidewalk before climbing across the seat and pushing open the passenger door. The movement startles him, and it takes a couple of seconds before he registers that it’s me emerging from the car.
“Bryn,” he exclaims. Watching him, it’s almost as if I can see how his mind processes my presence. There’s clearly an initial thought that we’ve simply ended up on a particular Saratoga street at the exact same moment, an event destined to happen sooner or later in this small town. And then, like a key in a tumbler lock pushing up the next pin, he realizes this isn’t a coincidence.
“I want to know what’s going on, Guy,” I say. “Why are you here?”
I sense him assessing, as if he’s trying to calculate how much I know before he tosses out an explanation.
“You were right about me needing a lawyer, so I’ve hired one.”
“You made a promise the other night to be honest with me, to keep me in the loop, and then one day later, you’re sneaking off to see an attorney behind my back.”
He glances back toward the law offices, checking, I assume, to see if anyone might be observing us, and then turns back to me.