The tequila was hitting my bloodstream. I smiled at him. “No reason.”
He gave me a quizzical look, then cleared his throat. “Look, Caroline. At the risk of embarrassing myself, can I say something? I meant what I said before. If you want me to walk away tonight and never bother you again, I will. Okay? The last thing I want to do is make you uncomfortable, especially with everything else you’re dealing with. And Lord knows my own life doesn’t need any more complications. But I—I really like you. I do. I have for a while.” His eyes held mine. “I’d like to help you, if you’ll let me.”
I felt something soften inside me.
“I’d like that, too. And I . . . I’m glad you flew down.” The words spilled out before I had time to think. I was surprised to realize they were true. My cheeks burned, and I busied myself tracing my finger around the rim of my glass and licking off the salt.
“You’re blushing.”
“Am not.”
He swiped his hand across his mouth to hide a grin. “Fine. Change of subject then. Want to tell me about your day from hell?”
“Oh, it’s been the longest day ever.” I sighed. “The phone started ringing before I even got out of bed. First this guy who used to play tennis with my dad. With Boone Smith, I mean. And then this cop called—”
“Hang on, hang on. Why were these people calling you? How do they even—”
“Because of the newspaper story.”
Will looked blank.
“The Journal-Constitution wrote a profile, about me coming back to Atlanta. It’s on the front page today.”
“You’re on the front page of today’s paper? Seriously?”
“Yeah.”
“Jesus. I must have walked right past it at the airport.”
“Well, every single other person in Atlanta seemed to see it.” I described for Will how I’d met Beamer Beasley in the newsroom, and what he’d told me about the day of the murders. Eventually, I arrived at what Beasley had told me about the bullet itself.
Will went pale and touched my hand. “That must have been awful to hear.”
“Yes. I—I wanted to claw it out right there. I still do.” I shuddered.
“I don’t blame you.”
We were both still. Then, suddenly, Will sucked in his breath. “Tell me again what exactly the cop wanted to know about the bullet? When he asked whether you could feel it in your neck?”
“That was pretty much it, I think.” My forehead wrinkled with concentration. “Beasley was walking me downstairs, and he asked whether the bullet hurt. Whether I’d ever explored getting it surgically removed.”
Will threw me a sharp look. “You see why he was asking that? It sounds like your case preyed on him, all these years. He never solved it. No wonder he wanted to meet with you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“He told you there was no physical evidence, right? Don’t you think the police would have liked to get their hands on the bullets? Then they might have figured out what type of gun was used. Maybe they could even have identified the actual murder weapon; I’m not sure how these things work. But Beasley said the bullet that hit your father disappeared, right? And the other one was off-limits to police, because it was sewn up inside a hurt little girl. Inside you, Caroline. You’re walking around with the evidence in your neck.”
? ? ?
SOMEHOW THIS PRECISE point had not occurred to me. I’d been so caught up with the horror of that bullet having traveled through Sadie Rawson’s flesh that I hadn’t stopped to consider its potential utility as forensic evidence.
“Do you think that’s why Beasley wanted to see me?” I asked Will. “To find out if there was any chance of extracting it?”
Will shrugged. “I don’t know. But imagine if you were him, and you unfolded your morning paper to find a case that had haunted you your whole career, plastered across the front page? He must have choked on his coffee. Of course he’d want to question you. Does the article mention that the bullet is still intact and in your neck?”
I shrank down. “Yes. They ran the image of the X-ray.”
“That was in the newspaper ?” Will looked aghast.
“They wanted proof that I wasn’t making all this up!”
“Okay, okay.” He took a deep breath. “To speak to your question, I have no idea whether Atlanta police would have the resources, or indeed the interest, in reopening a case that’s sat cold for thirtysomething years. But Beasley wouldn’t be much of a cop if he hadn’t asked, would he?”
“He also asked whether coming back here had jogged any memories.”
“Yeah. That would be the other thing I would want to know, if I were in his shoes.”
“I told him it hadn’t.”
“Nothing at all? Even going back to visit your old house?”
I shook my head. “There was a moment—I thought I remembered where a light switch should be, and there it was. On the stairs leading up to the attic. But no, nothing about my family, or how they died.”
“I’m glad, actually. Glad you don’t have to relive that day.” My right arm had been resting on the bar, and now he laid his arm against it. We were barely touching, but where his skin brushed mine, the hairs stood up, instantly electric.
“How’s your wrist?”
“The same,” I managed.
“I’ve seen you drawing circles, like this. Does that help?” His finger traced a slow circle on the white skin inside my wrist.
I nodded. Closed my eyes. The room tilted.
His finger circled again, more firmly now.
I was finding it hard to breathe. “You’re not my type.”
“That’s a shame.” Another circle. “For what it’s worth, you’re not my type either.”
My eyelids fluttered open. “I’m not? Why?”
“Well, for starters, I usually steer clear of women who set off metal detectors even when fully undressed.”
I smiled.
He smiled.