The Night Bird (Frost Easton #1)(69)

“Then talk to him,” Frost said. “Persuade him.”

“I’ll try, but I can’t promise you anything.”

“I need whatever he can tell me.” Frost opened the door of the car, letting in cool air and the noise of the wind in the pines. He hesitated. “Darren told me you lost your father recently. Is that true?”

“Yes, it is.”

“I’m sorry.”

She didn’t seem to care about gestures of sympathy. “What did Darren say about it?”

“It’s not important.”

“I want to know. Please.”

“He said tragedies like that can push someone over the edge,” Frost said.

Stein reached out and took hold of the steering wheel with clenched fists. “That bastard.”

“Does that mean something to you?”

“My father went off the edge of a cliff in Point Reyes while he was hiking,” Stein said.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I haven’t lost a parent, but I can imagine how difficult it must be.”

“It was a complicated relationship,” Stein said. “We weren’t close.”

“Even so.”

Stein stared through the windshield. “Driving here, over the hills, I kept looking over the edge of the cliff. I thought about what it must be like to fall. How your body accelerates. How the ground rushes toward you. What do you have time to think about? What goes through your head? I wonder about his last moments—”

“You shouldn’t do this to yourself,” Frost said, but he wasn’t sure that she was even aware that he was still in the car with her.

“I keep feeling like I’m missing something . . . ,” she began.

Her voice trailed away. Her mouth was open.

He thought, What’s your worst memory?

“Frankie?”

A tremble shuddered in her lower lip. A single glassy tear slipped down her face like melting snow. Her brown eyes were fixed in the darkness. Then, out of nowhere, her entire body convulsed. A spasm jolted her like the touch of a live wire, and she grabbed hold of herself and caved inward.

“Frankie!”

Her body twitched violently; her knees slammed up against the steering wheel. He grabbed one flying wrist. Then the other. He held her as she wriggled in his grasp, and she screamed out one word, drawing it out long and loud: “Stop!”

Seconds later, as quickly as it had come, the seizure washed away. Her body calmed. Her breathing quieted, and her face reddened with embarrassment. “I’m so sorry,” she murmured.

“Are you okay? What was that?”

“Grief,” she said. “A panic attack. That’s all. Everything in the world caught up with me for a moment.”

“Come to my car. I’ll drive you to the hospital.”

She shook her head. “I’m fine now.”

“You shouldn’t drive.”

She put a hand on top of his. Her skin was moist. “It would help if you could not be a cop for a minute, Frost.”

“I’m not being a cop. Just a human being.”

“Then trust me when I tell you I’ll be fine. It came. It went. It’s not coming back.”

“Do you have some kind of illness? Is it epilepsy?”

“No, there’s nothing like that. Really. You don’t have to worry about me. I’m a big girl. I don’t need anyone to rescue me.”

“I’ll follow you back to the city,” Frost said. “I want to make sure you don’t have any problems.”

“If you like.”

Reluctantly, Frost got out of the car. He hiked down the narrow street toward his Suburban, but he kept looking back over his shoulder. Dr. Stein started the engine of her own car, but she waited for him instead of driving away. He climbed into his SUV and put the truck into drive, and both of their vehicles headed back into the Berkeley hills.

He thought about Francesca Stein as he followed her. She was strange, complicated, and beautiful, like a puzzle box for which there was no key. He liked her, but he didn’t particularly like the way she made him feel. She was out of his league.





35


Frankie parked in the underground garage of her building in the Tenderloin. It was late, and she was alone. She walked to the elevator with her head down and her hands tightly gripping her elbows, as if she could hold herself up that way. When she got home, her condominium was dark. She uncorked an open bottle of wine in the refrigerator and poured herself a glass, which she carried up the stairs to their bedroom. Jason was asleep. She stood at the end of the bed and drank her wine and stared at her husband. When the wine was gone, which didn’t take long, she cupped the glass in her palm.

Eventually, as he shifted, he became aware of her presence. He pushed himself up in bed. “Frankie?”

“Yes.”

Silence lingered between them.

“Are you coming to bed?” he asked.

She didn’t answer, and he leaned over to turn on the lamp on his nightstand. A yellow glow illuminated them.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

Frankie turned away and went to the windows. She put the toe of her heels against the wall and rested her forehead and palms on the glass. It was like flying. The long fall to the street stretched out below her. “Something happened to me tonight,” she said.