Wherever She Goes(34)

“Laila Jackson,” a woman’s voice says.

I freeze.

“You have the identity of the woman murdered in Harris Park?” she prompts.

“Yes . . .” I say, dropping my voice an octave.

“Is this Aubrey Finch?”

I hang up. Then I stand and stare at the pay phone.

This can’t be happening. It’s like something out of a B-grade thriller, the kind I’d watch and roll my eyes at, saying, “Real cops wouldn’t do that.”

Or would they? Yes, from my point of view, I’m being blocked from giving the police a vital clue toward solving a crime. To Officer Jackson, though, I’m an attention-seeking nutjob, and she is not going to let me waste one moment of the department’s time.

There are people like the ones she’s pegged me for. People who fixate on the police and fancy themselves thwarted law officers. Or those who want their fifteen minutes of fame.

How do I convince Jackson that isn’t me? I keep thinking I have the evidence to do that . . . only to be stopped from delivering it.

Paul.

There’s no pretending anymore. I really need Paul’s help.

Except that asking for his help risks exposing my secrets. If he found out about my past, that would endanger my chances of joint custody.

I won’t give up my daughter. I’m sorry, Kim. I’m sorry, Brandon. I just won’t.

I will, however, keep trying to solve this dilemma. I spend the ride home coming up with scenarios. My best bet is Officer Cooper. I must find a way to get to him . . . circumventing his pitbull partner, Laila Jackson.

Email. That’s the answer. Find Cooper’s personal email and send him everything. Include photos and screenshots. Send him evidence that, once seen, he cannot unsee, cannot deny.

I return to my apartment. It’s after eight, and I need dinner—my stomach is complaining from the nonstop coffee and pastries. I’ll pop in here and then go hang out in a local coffee shop, buy something relatively healthy and send that email.

There, that’s my night sorted. Afterward maybe I’ll even rent a movie and try to distract—

I’m stepping out of the stairwell when I spot a figure at my apartment door. I flash back to Thursday and think it’s Paul again.

It’s not.

It’s Officer Jackson.

She’s in civilian clothes—jeans, heeled ankle boots, and a stylish leather jacket—and she’s standing outside my door, browsing on her phone. Killing time. Waiting for her quarry to return.

I back up fast, ease open the stairwell door, and retreat as quietly as I can. I go straight for my car, and I don’t pause to think until I’m a few blocks from home. Then I pull into a strip mall, park, and sit there, hands on the steering wheel as I stare out the windshield.

I can’t make an end run around Jackson to get to Cooper. She won’t let me. For whatever reason, Laila Jackson has made “stop Aubrey Finch” her mission, and she’s locked fast to it until I back off.

I will not back off.

So what do I do now? Check into a hotel for the night to avoid her? Paul will be bringing Charlotte to my apartment in the morning.

That’s fine—she won’t still be there come morning. I just need to find something to do for a few hours, something that will help bolster my case.

Like what? I have Kim’s name. I have her bio details. I even know who might be the father of her child. What more can I get?

I keep thinking of the club’s grand opening tonight. Which is, again, crazy. What do I hope to gain there? Get a look at Denis Zima and confirm he’s Brandon’s father? A visual scan is hardly a DNA test. So what would I gain from going to that club tonight? I have no idea. I just know that I’m frustrated and restless, and there’s a police officer staking out my apartment door, and I have time to kill and . . .

And I know none of that is a reason. Excuses, that’s all I have. The truth, I suspect, is that I’ve been fighting this urge ever since I saw that ad. I have no idea what I expect to accomplish at Zima’s club, but I’m going.

Which is crazy.

And, right now, I don’t care.





Chapter Nineteen





Being unable to get into my apartment means I can’t get ready there. Not that it matters much. Nothing in my closet these days is clubworthy. I did have a few dresses, back when I met Paul, and my coworkers could occasionally drag me to a club. That isn’t Paul’s scene, though.

I remember a couple of weeks after we’d begun dating, he suggested a club, which shocked the hell out of me. I’d pulled on my little black dress, and we spent exactly twenty awkward minutes in the club, before I confessed it really wasn’t my thing, and I swear he melted in relief. Instead, we’d bought a bottle of champagne and checked into a hotel, and he showed me that, while clubs themselves weren’t for him, he did appreciate my clubwear.

Even if I had those dresses, they wouldn’t fit anymore. I put on fifteen pounds with Charlotte, and I decided to keep most of it. I was in good shape, and I kind of liked the extra weight—it made me feel more like my image of a mother, whatever that might be. So I needed to do some shopping.

Fortunately, I’d taken out more money than I needed for the laptop. I bought a dress, heels, undergarments . . . I left my fancier underthings behind when I split with Paul—not much use for them in my current celibate life. While I won’t be showing off my panties tonight—definitely not on my agenda—the new ones make me feel like a single girl going to a club.