Wherever She Goes(71)

“He . . .” She goes quiet, and then says quickly, “He was looking for Ms. Lansing.”

“Gayle?”

“Yes. He came in looking for her, but she’d just left. She was planning to work from home for the afternoon. He went after her.”

“Ah, okay. Thanks.”

I disconnect and idle at a green light until someone lays on the horn behind me.

Paul lied to me. He said he was picking up files. Instead, he was looking for Gayle. When I asked how Gayle felt about him helping me, he said she was fine with it . . . and then changed the subject.

Gayle must not be fine with it, and he went to the office to speak to her. Now he’s followed her home. That’s okay. It’s time for me to tackle this on my own and not screw up his new life any more than I have.

I’ll call Laila before I get to Oxford and meet her at the police station, where I’ll tell her and Cooper the whole story. I don’t need Paul to hold my hand for that.

I do call him, though. Just a quick one to say I have everything under control. The phone only rings once. Then someone answers. Only it’s not Paul.

“Hello, Aubrey.” The woman’s voice is ice cold.

“Gayle?”

“Yes.”

“Is Paul there?” I hurry on with, “This will only take a moment.”

“Haven’t you taken up enough of his time?”

I should wince. I should apologize. I’d just been thinking that very thing. But it’s not as if I strong-armed Paul into helping me. Or sobbed on his shoulder, begging for his assistance.

“Yes,” I say, injecting an equal dose of ice into my voice. “Paul comes with some baggage, and that baggage is me. But if you know him—at all—then you understand that this is how he is. I’m having a problem that affects our daughter, and he is helping me resolve it. I am very sorry if that has upset or inconvenienced you, but it is almost over. Just let me—”

“It’s over now, Aubrey.”

“Where’s Paul?”

“Here. He’s asked me to handle this.”

I snort a laugh. “Uh, no. He hasn’t. Let me guess, he’s temporarily out of the room, and you grabbed his phone.”

Her silence tells me I’m right. In that silence, I hear the ticking of a grandfather clock. The one at our—Paul’s—house. So they’ve gone there, and he’s stepped into the bathroom, and she’s seen me call and answered.

“Paul wants me to tell you—” she begins.

“Like hell. Paul is a nice guy. A good guy. A guy who doesn’t particularly like confrontations, but he’s not a coward. If he has something to say to me, he’ll say it himself. Just like he would have asked me about horseback riding last Saturday. I thought that seemed odd. Turns out you lied to me, which—by the way—I haven’t told him. Now hand the damned phone to Paul.”

“Gayle?” Paul’s voice sounds in the background, underscored by the smack of his loafers along the hall. “I thought I asked you to leave—”

Gayle hangs up.

You bitch.

You royal bitch.

I start to call back. Then I stop myself. I’m not getting into a tug-of-war between them. I don’t know what’s happened, but Paul’s tone and his words tell me they’ve had an argument. If it’s about me, then I’m sorry for that, but I’ve done nothing wrong.

I know Paul’s at home. I’ll be there in twenty minutes, and I’ll talk to him in person. By then, Gayle will be gone.

I call Laila and leave a message saying I’m coming to the station to speak to her. I’ll be there in an hour.

Whatever’s happening with Beth, it’s not an urgent situation. No more urgent than it has been since Kim’s death. I lost Orbec back at Beth’s place, and I’ve seen no sign of him or his car since then. I’ve been watching for them. Back when I walked away from Ruben’s operation, I educated myself on Fugitive Life 101—everything I needed to rest assured that no one was after me. So I know how to spot a tail. I don’t have one.

As I round the corner to Paul’s house, I see Gayle’s car in the drive. I let out a curse, and I slow.

If they’re still arguing, I don’t want to walk into that. And if they’re making up, I definitely don’t want to walk into that.

I will admit that it takes some effort to decide I’m not going into that house. I know it’s the right stance—the selfless choice I should make if I care about Paul. If Gayle makes him happy, he should be with Gayle. But that’s me making a conscious effort to do the right thing. There’s still a little part of me—okay, not too little—that wants to barrel in there and have it out with her and let Paul know what she did on the phone.

I love him. I would love to have him back. I’m not denying that. I just need to keep my distance until he figures out what he wants. I owe him that much.

As I pass the house, I slow. I’m looking at Gayle’s car, and something’s prickling the back of my mind, pushing through the warring voices of “stay out of this” and “get in there and fight for him.” Those voices are loud enough that the niggling really has to push hard to break through. But it does, and I realize what I’m seeing.

The car from the playground video.