The Golden Couple(91)

“What about you? Were you upset?”

“Honestly, a little. I guess mostly because of the realization that something like that could happen. We all hung out at the beach, but I never got to really know her. She wasn’t my type. She could be a little wild.” Matthew hesitates.

Again, I wait.

“Tina actually had a thing for Skip. That’s what Marissa says. The night she died—” Matthew cuts himself off.

“What happened the night she died?”

Matthew shrugs. “Look, I’m not really sure. You know how people are—everyone had crazy theories about what happened to Tina. But the truth came out. And Marissa and I ended up together, so…” He spreads out his hands, as if it were the end of the story.

It isn’t for me, though. I’m about to dig for more when I spot a blur of motion out of the corner of my eye.

“Matthew, is someone else on the boat?”

“Huh? No, not that I know of.”

By the time he’s finished answering, I’m at the stairs.

I scramble up the first two, then my foot slips on the third narrow wedge of wood and I have to grab the railings hard to keep from falling. I climb the rest of the way a little more slowly and land on the deck, blinking as direct sunlight hits my eyes. I spin around, trying to look in all directions, but for a few moments I’m blinded. When my vision returns, I scan my surroundings, but all the bobbing boats obscure clear sight lines. I glance at the vessels on either side of us, thinking that someone might have hopped into one. But they appear to be empty.

Then I see a man jogging off the end of the pier and heading toward Pearl Street. He’s moving at a good clip, and his back is to me.

Matthew comes up to join me. “Look. No one else is here.”

Someone was though.

I strain to catalog details about the man, but he’s too far away.

The wharf is even quieter now; the men who were working must be taking a lunch break. If someone was creeping around our boat, it must have been him.

I point. “Did you see that guy when you first got here?” I turn to Matthew.

He is watching me with a concerned expression. Behind him is a vast, open expanse of water. “I don’t see anyone.”

I turn back again and realize the man must have already turned the corner or disappeared into one of the few open restaurants.

I slip on my shoes and reach into my purse for my sunglasses. “I’ve got to go. How much longer are you planning to stay?”

“I’m actually about to go, too. I just need to take care of a quick thing here, then I’m going to pick up a few more items for tomorrow night and head home.”

“One more question. Do the police have any more leads on who might have attacked you?”

Matthew shakes his head. His bandage is gone now; the only evidence of his assault is a faint bruise near his hairline. “Not that I know of. Since I couldn’t identify anyone out of the lineup, they weren’t able to make an arrest.”

I say goodbye and walk down the pier, taking in deep breaths of the cold, fresh air.

As I head up the ramp and pass over the retaining wall, I think about various scenarios: Someone could have followed me here. I already know, thanks to the man who came after me in the garage and the fake client who entered my home, that Acelia employs far-reaching ways to get to me.

Or maybe Matthew was the target. Someone could have crept onto the boat hoping to find him alone.

I’m still not convinced that random attack against Matthew was purely random. Anyone can be hired to do just about anything to us. Even Ray, the homeless guy who hangs out near Marissa’s store, was paid to deliver a threatening note.

I take a final look behind me. Matthew is still standing there, watching me go. Or maybe he’s just taking in the air, too.

I’m passing by the Watering Hole when I spot a small white object in the path the jogger just traced. It’s probably nothing. Still, I veer left and pick it up.

It’s a slip of paper, folded in half.

It’s a bit crumpled, but it looks too pristine to have been here for longer than a few minutes.

When I unfold it, I see the name and address of a restaurant called the Whistler Bar & Grill printed on top. It’s in D.C., on Sixteenth Street. Lower down, in the middle of the receipt, two charges are listed:

Cluny and soda, $6.99. Then again: Cluny and soda, $6.99.

It’s the brand of cheap Scotch that Matthew said his father drinks.





CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN


MARISSA




“NOW GO WASH that chocolate mustache off your face before it becomes permanent,” Marissa teases Bennett as she unlocks the door leading from the garage to the kitchen.

“You’re home!” Matthew calls out, getting up from a stool at the granite island, where he has been reading the newspaper. He’s wearing jeans and an old sweatshirt and his cheeks look a little ruddy. He seems relaxed and happy; Marissa supposes he solved the work crisis.

“How was the Cub Scout thing?” Matthew ruffles Bennett’s hair. Before Bennett can answer, Matthew spots the gauze wrapped around Bennett’s finger. “What happened to your hand?”

Bennett glances over at Marissa, then down at his sneakers and shrugs.

“What happened?” Matthew repeats, this time asking Marissa.