“He hit her?”
“That’s when she finally told me everything. She came over and sat down in my kitchen and cried and cried. She didn’t know what to do. I told her she’d made her bed, literally”—a sad laugh escaped Cheral’s lips—“she made her bed, and now she had to lie in it. But she was scared.”
I felt sick.
“I’ve thought about this, so many times. Whether there was something I could have done. Somebody I should have told. But I don’t think even Sadie Rawson believed he would really harm her.”
I frowned in confusion. “You said he hit her. It sounds like he harmed her plenty.”
“He said he would kill her,” Cheral whispered. “Tank said he would kill her before he would lose her. And then she was dead.” Tears began to fall down Cheral’s cheeks. “She was dead, and I knew he had kept his word.”
Nineteen
* * *
There is a ring road that circles Atlanta. It functions like the Beltway in Washington, separating the core of the city from its surrounding suburbs. In Atlanta, this road is called I-285. Locals refer to it as the Perimeter. I had learned this at the Hertz desk three days ago, when I picked up my rental car, and the agent instructed me to avoid the Perimeter like the plague at rush hour.
“Un-frigging-believable that a sixteen-lane highway can get backed up, but it does,” he’d advised. “Better to take Georgia 400. Otherwise you’ll be stuck in mind-numbing traffic forever, wishing you could slit your wrists.”
I had made a mental note and kept away.
But as I drove away from Cheral Rooney’s house, I noticed a sign marking an I-285 entrance ramp, and on a whim, I took it. Frankly, mind-numbing traffic sounded appealing. Mind-numbing anything, for that matter. I was desperate not to think about what I’d just heard. I steered down the ramp and into the stream of cars, which—sure enough—was barely crawling.
By the time I had completed a full circle around the Perimeter—two hours in the late-afternoon traffic—my mind began to clear. I decided I’d had enough. Enough with chasing phantoms. I could try to find this Tank, confront him, demand to know what had happened that day back in 1979. But what good would it do? It wouldn’t bring back Boone and Sadie Rawson. What had happened to them—what had happened to me—was unspeakable. It would be a long time before I got over the shock of seeing Sadie Rawson’s face in that photograph. But you can feel only so much sorrow for a person whom you physically resemble, but can’t actually remember. Enough. It was time to go home.
Dusk was falling. I had nearly finished another loop around the city. The car needed gas and I needed a drink.
Out of habit, I headed back to the St. Regis. I had handed in my room key this morning, to discover that Ethan Sinclare had picked up the tab for my entire stay. Three nights, plus (I cringed to think of him seeing this) the gargantuan bill for my room-service cheeseburger frenzy. He must have circled back and handed the manager his credit card after we’d finished breakfast together this morning. He had left a handwritten note at the front desk: Caroline— Such a pleasure to meet you. Hope you don’t mind my doing this. Betsy and I would love to take you to dinner if you ever find yourself in Atlanta again. I like to think that somehow, Boone is watching over you, and that he knows his friends are looking after his baby girl.
Yours truly,
Ethan
What a nice man. No wonder Boone had liked him. And thanks to his thoughtfulness, this trip had now cost me a fraction of what I had budgeted. I could afford to stay put tonight, catch my breath, and fly back to Washington first thing tomorrow.
Soon I was stepping out of the Mazda and onto the stone driveway of the hotel. The elegant lobby was hushed, only a few people milling around, a piano tinkling somewhere out of sight. A familiar-looking bellhop scurried over to take my suitcase. I was headed toward the front desk when I froze. Did a double take. Felt my heart skip.
Standing there, beside the elevators, was Will Zartman.
? ? ?
WE STARED AT each other for a long moment.
Then Will held up a hand and waved.
I crossed the lobby to where he stood. “What are you doing here?”
“Hey, Caroline. Nice to see you, too.” He smiled, waited.
But I wasn’t in the mood for routine pleasantries. “What are you doing here?” I demanded again.
“I was worried. You sounded awful on the phone.”
“Did I? Well, it’s been a hell of a day. I didn’t think—you didn’t sound very interested when I called.”
“I was interested.” His voice was both determined and a little shy. “I was starting to think the only way to get you back to Washington was if I came down and dragged you back myself.”
“If you came down and dragged me back? And so—so you just went and jumped on a plane this afternoon?”
“You need to keep your appointment with the surgeon tomorrow, Caroline. Either that, or let me connect you with one down here.”
I stared at him, trying to take this in. “How did you find me?”
“You told me where you were staying. Remember? And I did try to reach you this afternoon, to tell you I was coming. As you would know if you ever, just once in a while, answered your phone.”
“But I checked out of the St. Regis this morning. How did you know I would come back here? I didn’t decide myself until a few minutes ago.”
He shrugged. “Lucky guess. Where else would you go?”
“Well. This is—it’s incredibly sweet of you. But don’t you have, like, a job? Patients you’re supposed to be seeing?”
“Look, if you want me to turn around and go home, just say the word.” Will sounded offended.