Two years ago, Andy had sensed the same distance she had. They weren’t the same teenage lovers. They weren’t the same people. Max respected Andy—she even loved him in a way, since he’d been an important part of her life for so long. But she wasn’t in love with him, and had a hard time with forgiveness. Being back for Kevin’s funeral reminded her that she and Andy had split because of Kevin: Max believed he was innocent, Andy believed he was guilty. There was no middle ground. But that fundamental disagreement was only a symptom of why they wouldn’t have worked for the long haul.
The waiter brought Andy’s drink. When he left, Andy said, “I’d offer you a penny for your thoughts, except you’ve always given them away for free.”
Max raised an eyebrow. “Why are you here?”
“Why do you think I’m here?”
“I honestly don’t know. I’ll tell you what I told William when he came by earlier. Jodi O’Neal asked me to come to Kevin’s funeral. I had the time, so I came.”
He stared at her in that deep way he had, making her think he could read her mind when Max knew he’d never truly known what she was thinking. He said, “Jodi has made it clear to anyone who’d listen that she doesn’t think Kevin killed himself. You show up. You investigate crimes.”
Max held up her hand. “I’m not here because of my job.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Why do I think you’re interrogating me?”
She stared at Andy pointedly. Most people, including William, would glance away at her stern look. Not Andy. She’d never intimidated him, as a teenager or as an adult. She used to be able to read him well, but thirteen years was a long time. And if she were honest with herself, which she always tried to be, the few times she’d seen him since—the few times she’d slept with him—they’d each had a wall up, knowing they couldn’t go back to being eighteen.
Andy avoided her question by asking bluntly, “Do you think, like Jodi, that Kevin was murdered?”
“I’m not investigating his death.” She’d found his postscript akin to a suicide note. She could tell Andy that she believed it was suicide, but she didn’t want to explain why, to Andy or anyone, until she had more information.
“Is that why you were at the police station this afternoon?”
“Who told you that?” But as Max answered with the question, she had a dozen more. Why did he care? What was he hiding? Why did he feel the need to confront her tonight, without warning?
Andy’s jaw was tight, and while he leaned back in the booth casually, his neck muscles were also tense. “Kevin’s doing it to us again.”
“Kevin’s dead.”
“It’s because of him that we broke up in the first place. And it’s because of him that we’re fighting now.”
She sighed, weary and in sore need of eight hours of sleep. “I’m not fighting with you, Andy. I was having a very pleasant working dinner. Alone. I’m in town for Kevin’s funeral. I’m gathering information for Jodi so she can move on with her life.” She hesitated, then added, “Kevin didn’t break us up. We were eighteen-year-old teenagers who had a fundamental difference of opinion. There’s no ‘agree to disagree’ when you have two hotheaded, young, passionate people who both are certain they are right.”
“And I guess we’ll never know,” Andy said.
“I know I was right. I never believed then or now that Kevin killed Lindy.”
“You’re still so positive. If not Kevin, then who?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you’re here.”
“Not to find out who killed Lindy.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Max glared at him. He was essentially calling her a liar, a serious charge. “I’m talking and you’re not listening.”
“I’m looking at the evidence.”
“I’ll tell you the truth. I didn’t come here to investigate Lindy’s death. I didn’t come here to write about Kevin or his trial or the fact that the police never seriously looked at any other suspects. I came here for Jodi.”
Max stood, her anger building, and she needed to get out of the bar before she lost her temper.
“But,” she added, bending over the table, her face inches from Andy’s, “if I decide to stir the hornet’s nest, it’s certainly none of your business.”
Chapter Six
Max was by nature an early riser, but when deep in a case she also developed insomnia. There were other triggers—unresolved questions and family being two of the biggest. She had both. So when her mind woke up at 4:00 A.M. after less than five hours of sleep—unable to go to bed earlier because of her confrontation with Andy—she knew sleep time was over. A five-mile run on the treadmill in the hotel’s gym, followed by a hot shower and personal pampering, went a long way in hiding her tired eyes.
“You’re not old,” she said to her reflection. But several late nights in a row definitely made her feel much older than her thirty-one years.
Max believed that if she was to be taken seriously as a crime reporter, she needed to present herself as a professional. She’d learned while a college senior investigating Karen’s disappearance in Miami that if she looked like a punk college kid, she’d be treated as such—and not given any information. But if she dressed like a Revere—essentially, someone of means who looked and acted important—she would be taken seriously. When she launched her monthly cable crime show nearly two years ago, she took more care in her appearance. Part of it was vanity, but mostly it was her image and how her appearance helped her gather information. She could change her look in a moment if she needed to dress down or blend in.
Max left her hotel early in order to meet the Hoffmans, who were staying in a hotel fifteen minutes up the freeway. She normally didn’t have a problem changing gears while working on simultaneous investigations. In a perfect world, she preferred to focus on one case at a time, but Max was often researching one case while interviewing for another while proofreading an article or preparing her opening remarks for a broadcast related to a completely different crime.