The Perfect Stranger (Social Media #2)(52)

“I’m sorry.”

She nods, uncomfortable.

“Was it sudden?”

Again she nods, and finds herself wanting to tell him the whole story. He is, after all, a former cop. Maybe he has some insight into how this could have happened to Meredith.

But that’s silly, isn’t it? It’s not as though he works in Cincinnati law enforcement anymore. And even if he did—or if he had a direct pipeline into the investigation—it’s not as if he’d share details of the case with a perfect stranger on a plane.

Anyway, she doesn’t necessarily want to get into how well she knows—or rather, doesn’t know—Meredith. Why complicate what should really remain pleasant small talk between two people who are never going to see each other again?

She changes the subject, asking him if there’s a magazine in his seat-back pocket.

He looks. “No magazine.”

“I was wondering if maybe I just didn’t have one, or if the airline doesn’t publish one.”

He shrugs. “I’m not sure.”

They both fall silent again as the plane gains altitude. Hint taken. He’s no longer asking for the details about Meredith’s death.

But maybe she wishes he would. Maybe she wants to tell him what happened. After all, he’s a private investigator. Maybe he can— Her thoughts are interrupted by a bell signal.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the flight attendant announces, “the fasten seat-belt light is still on and we ask that you please remain seated. However, it’s now safe to turn on electronic devices . . .”

Landry bends over to take her electronic reader from the bag under the seat in front of her. When she straightens, she sees that Bruce Mangione is already opening his laptop.

The moment has passed.

It’s probably just as well.

“So what’s Jermaine doing today?” Frank asks, in the passenger seat beside Crystal as she pulls onto the interstate, heading toward the western suburbs.

“Same thing he does every Saturday, working. What’s Marcy doing?”

“Same thing she does every Saturday: taking the kids to activities. Swim lessons, ballet, Little League . . .”

Three kids. Three different directions. God bless Marcy.

Frank’s wife is a bubbly, energetic woman adored by everyone, including her husband. But that doesn’t stop him from straying.

“You’re missing it all,” Crystal observes, merging into traffic. “Their ball games, their dance recitals . . .”

“Yeah, well . . .” Frank shrugs. “Sometimes, that’s not such a bad thing. Have you ever sat through seven innings of T-ball in the rain?”

Crystal takes her eyes off the road long enough to send him a look that says, You don’t want to miss a thing. Trust me.

Frank shifts uncomfortably. “Sorry.”

Of course he’s aware of her son’s death. They weren’t partners then, but he knows a lot about what unfolded in her life before they met. Knows everything, really. You work long, hard hours with a person, you become privy to their deepest, darkest secrets.

She’s no angel, but she’s got nothing to hide these days.

Unlike Frank.

She tries not to judge. She really does. What goes on in other people’s marriages is their business.

Still, whenever Frank talks, she doesn’t just listen . . . she offers advice. Unsolicited, of course, because no cheating man is going to ask a woman—especially one who knows and likes his wife—what she thinks about his extramarital affair.

Her advice to Frank is always the same: end it.

End the affair. Go home to your wife every night and be grateful for what you have. A loving spouse. Three beautiful healthy kids. A roof over your head and a job that will keep it there . . .

Sometimes, she thinks she’s getting through to Frank—but then he’ll slip and say something, or she’ll see something, and she’ll know he’s still involved with the other woman he’s been seeing for a while now.

A fellow cop.

Someone who understands . . .

Like Jermaine understands Crystal.

So, yeah. Who is she to judge?

She thinks about Hank Heywood. He’s still riding high on their short list of suspects, but they haven’t turned up a scrap of evidence against the guy. If he has anything to hide, it’s well-buried.

He did tell them about his wife’s secret—that her cancer had spread—but he asked them not to share that information with the rest of the family.

Unfortunately, Hank Heywood’s request was not as simple to honor as Keith Drover’s appeal that they not mention his affair to his wife. Drover’s illicit relationship has no direct impact on the investigation—not at this stage, anyway. His alibi seems to have checked out—unless, of course, his lover is an accomplice who’s covering for him.

Anything is possible. But—at this point, anyway—they have no reason to suspect Drover, and he has no apparent motive for wanting his mother-in-law dead.

The man’s lover, Jonathan Randall, is an adjunct at the University of Kentucky. He seemed a bit rattled to be questioned in connection with a homicide investigation, though he said he already knew about the murder. He confirmed that he and Keith were together at his apartment until the wee hours on Saturday night—and volunteered that they were together again on Tuesday night, while Rebecca Drover was in Cincinnati with her family.