I think of the apartment, the shattered glass on the dining room floor that I haven’t yet bothered to clean up, and I feel rooted to my seat. I picture Penny finding the sticky mess, wondering about its meaning. Calling Henry, compassion in her voice, Are things okay? I rummage through my purse for my phone, which is blinking with a waiting text from Henry. Are you at home? I’m sorry about our fight. I’ve been hopelessly stressed about work. I want you in my life more than anything else. I forgot all about the celebration tonight, I’ve been so distracted. I love you. Please say you’ll go with me. It’s formal. I’ve sent something to the apartment. Call me when you get it. I’ll pick you up.
The long message is a stark difference from Henry’s usual short and to the point texts. I feel my heart, like fluttering wings in my chest, and close my eyes. I look at the time stamp, when did he send it? 12:05, right as he would be leaving the gym. I shove the image of the blonde out of my mind and feel a rush of love for him. We’re not perfect, we may not even be good, right now. But there’s hope there, and I know there’s love. I can see it in the way he looks at me, and I flash back to his face, captivated, in the flickering candlelight of the Italian restaurant as he detailed the history of the town. Every woman should have a man who looks at her like that, like she’s the only one in the room. Was that really only a few days ago?
I sent you something. I stand up so quickly that my knee hits the table, and I shove my phone back inside my purse. I hurry through the crowded café, jostling elbows and bumping into tables. On the way, I toss the paper cup in the trash. I have my head bent down and I’m so lost in thought that when I push open the front door, I crash right into Molly McKay.
CHAPTER 18
“Hilary!” Her voice is shrill, with the urgency of a reporter covering a tabloid story, and it takes me a second to make sense of her. She keeps going. “I know it’s you.”
“Did you follow me here?”
“Just talk to me, please. Why are you doing this? You were my best friend, you know.” She leans toward me, her pink lipsticked mouth twisted into a grimace, but her eyes are imploring, clouded with hurt. I have no doubt that she believes that to be true. I tended to follow her around, I was a hanger-on, which was Molly’s favorite kind of friend. Probably why I felt such kinship with Mick. “I can’t just let it go. Why do you keep running away? What happened to you?”
“I—I have no idea who you are or what you’re talking about, but please, leave me alone.” I start to turn, but she grabs my bare arm, twisting it slightly, and jabs a bright pink manicured finger into my elbow.
“Right there. You had twenty-two stitches, right there, and I sat in the ER all night with you. You fell off a horse. You liked the ranch hand, what was his name? Oh yeah, Harlan. He checked up on you, later, and we all thought for sure you’d get together, but you didn’t. Because he was actually married. But I’m the only one who knows that, because I came back the next day, mind you, from staying at Gunther’s, and he was still there, at six in the morning. You can’t pretend you don’t know me.”
Her clear blue eyes never waver. I’m not even sure she blinks. Molly was never a shrinking violet, but I’d never known her to have this kind of verve.
As careless as I’ve been, I can’t shrug off Detective Maslow’s words. He’d cautioned about ever going back to San Francisco. We caught Jared and the others, the ringleaders. There are still powerful men in hiding. We’ll never catch them all. I think of Mick, languishing in prison, for he was always an underling. The real terror was Jared. And possibly others: nameless, faceless threats.
I think of my ransacked apartment. I think of the driver careening through the intersection. All the things I don’t know for sure. Then, I think of how Molly, if I relented, even for a second, would surely call anyone she kept in touch with. The idea of it, the story alone, was just too juicy. I imagine the news floating out over the airwaves, through the Midwest, back to San Francisco. I imagine the idea of it finding Mick, or worse, Jared. Hilary Lawlor, the bitch who put you in jail, is in New York.
“I’m sorry, but I have no idea who you are. Please, leave me alone.” I wrench my arm out of her taloned grip.