Ink and Bone(49)

Did she sound desperate? She probably did. She didn’t care about that either. That was the other thing she’d learned, that it didn’t matter a damn what people thought of you. The world was a hard, unyielding place no matter whether people thought you were a saint or a sinner.

He drained his water glass. “Do you want to?” he asked with a frown, as if he hadn’t been asked the question before.

“If you think it would help,” she said. “Would it help?”

“I’ll ask her how she wants to proceed,” he said. “I’ll say that Eloise didn’t often meet with clients.”

“Why not?” asked Merri.

“It just isn’t how she works,” he said. “It isn’t always about the person looking. That’s not always how she connects to the case. Maybe for Finley it’s different. Like I say, she’s untried.”

He was very matter-of-fact about the whole thing.

“And it’s hard for Eloise, I guess,” he went on. “She can’t always help, and it’s very disappointing for folks, difficult to accept. Some people become hostile; she’s had a lot of threats.”

She nodded her understanding; she could see it, remembering how bitter the man was in her grief-counseling group. How would she feel if this investigation led her back to the place where she was when she drove up here—sick with desperation, lost, afraid that the day Abbey was taken was the last of any livable life? Would she be angry, hostile? Would she level threats? No. Most likely, she would just turn to ash, blow away on the wind, unable to keep herself together even for her remaining child who needed her so badly.





FIFTEEN


When Finley got home, her grandmother’s car was still gone. Something about the absence of the car in the drive unsettled her. She didn’t dwell on it long, however, because there was another car there instead. Rainer was asleep in his old Mustang, parked in the driveway. She pulled her bike up alongside him. He was so sound asleep, head leaning back, mouth agog, that he didn’t even wake up. And her engine was loud. She’d always envied him his deep and untroubled, dreamless slumber.

His car was old, not as in vintage, but old as in a hunk of junk. The fact the he’d driven it from Seattle defied the laws of physics. The whole vehicle actually rattled when he got up over fifty-five miles an hour, reeked inside of pot smoke. With its black-tinted windows and primer-only paint job, it looked like something out of a postapocalyptic science fiction movie. Finley had a weird affection for that car, though. It was uniquely Rainer, and they’d had a lot of good times driving around in it—and parking it.

How could you go out with a guy who drives a piece of garbage like that? her father had wanted to know. A man’s car says everything about him.

Her father had a brand-new black Range Rover and a Porsche 911 Targa 4 in electric blue, both cars that made people stare with unmasked envy. What did he think that said about him? she wondered. That he was an elitist jerk? A ridiculous middle-aged show-off? If so, then he was dead on.

I really don’t think that’s true, Dad.

It is. Trust me. A man who drives a piece of crap like that will never amount to anything.

It’s what he can afford.

Exactly.

He’s eighteen, she’d countered, which he had been at the time of the argument. The fact that he was still driving the thing was a testament to his endurance, his ability to make anything work. I don’t think that logic applies to teenagers.

You’re eighteen. You’re driving an Acura.

That you bought for me. If it were up to me to buy a car, I’d be taking the bus.

Well, her father said. He never lost an argument; or rather never let you think that you had won. It’s different for a girl. Add sexist to his many annoying characteristics. But still, her dad always made her laugh.

She knocked on the window, and Rainer stirred awake, not one to startle. He climbed out and stretched with the relaxed ease of someone who was deeply comfortable in his own skin. He had ink on his hands, a purple stain on his jeans. He was wearing the same charcoal-gray tee-shirt he’d been wearing last night, hadn’t shaved. It was possible that he was a little high, his eyes slightly glassy. He smoked a lot of dope, nothing worse. But it was a problem for her. “Sober most of the time” was a top item on the boyfriend checklist.

“You skipped class,” he said, lifting his arms to the sky in an elaborate reach, exposing his toned belly. A little flutter of desire made Finley blush and turn away.

“What are you doing here?” she asked. It came out a little sharp, but Rainer was tone deaf.

“I wanted to see you,” he said. “Check your tat. Take you out for ice cream or something.”

She walked toward the front door, and he followed her onto the porch. Finley gazed up the road, wondered about her grandmother again and when she’d be home. Eloise didn’t exactly love Rainer any more than Finley’s parents did, although she said she didn’t think he was a bad guy. Just a little lost—rudderless was the word Eloise had used. It was true, to some extent. His mom was kind of a hard case, not exactly warm and fuzzy. His dad was a flake, a drummer for a Seattle band, and a lot more interested in the club scene than he was in Rainer. Eloise had never said that Rainer wasn’t welcome, but Finley had the sense that he wasn’t. She felt like she was sneaking around, having him here. Then she got mad about feeling that way. She wasn’t a child, was she?