Woman on the Edge(29)

I stay right where I am, watching him. Even from far away, I can see how red and puffy his face is. His sister just died. What right do I have to intrude on his life?

He pops into the Altima and pulls out of the driveway. On impulse, I decide to follow.

“Okay, Ben Layton, where are we going?” I ask out loud as I start my car and follow a safe distance behind. I’m tailing Nicole’s brother around Chicago and ignoring every piece of Jessica’s advice. Clearly, I’m out of my mind.

I’ve followed him for about fifteen minutes when he turns onto North State Street.

I slow as the Altima pulls up to a row of gorgeous three-story homes on East Bellevue Place. I park a few houses back. The address is familiar. Then I realize why. I saw it on Nicole’s petition for guardianship. This is her street.

He parks in the driveway of a stunning graystone and gets out of the car. I’ve pulled over a safe distance back, behind a parked car, but I have a good view. I watch as he takes Quinn out of her car seat. I wonder if he had it on hand or if he just bought it. She’s quiet, so I surmise she’s asleep. So much turmoil for this little baby. I wait while he walks not to Nicole’s house but to the home beside hers, up to the front door. He knocks. An elderly woman opens the door slowly. They talk for a minute, and she puts something in his hand. Then he heads out, walks to Nicole’s house, with its limestone facade and elegant, bowed windows. He climbs the wide steps set between two intricately carved columns. Quinn looks so comfortable in his big arms. Protected.

I can’t wait any longer. I pull my ponytail tighter and exit the car. Then I step to the edge of the driveway.

Ben must have heard my footsteps because he spins around and looks right at me, his blue eyes widening. They’re lined with exhaustion, lighter but no less piercing than his sister’s.

As he draws closer, I step back a little. I think of how so few people expressed their condolences to me when Ryan killed himself. No one knows what to say after a suicide.

“Dr. Layton?” I say quietly.

“Yes. Who are you?” he asks warily, shifting Quinn into the crook of his arm and adjusting the strap of the red backpack slung over his shoulder.

“I’m so sorry about your sister.”

Sorrow is etched into his face. Quinn opens her eyes and shrieks in his arms, and it’s all I can do not to rush forward, reach out, and try to soothe her.

“What do you want? Jesus, can’t you reporters just leave me alone?”

He looks so lost and confused, so unbearably sad, that I feel bad I’ve come at all. “I’m not a reporter,” I say. “I swear, I’m not.”

“Then who are you?”

I swallow hard. “I—I was there. With Nicole. I mean I was with her right before she … jumped.”

“It’s okay,” he says. “How could you have known what … what she was about to do?” His blue eyes darken. “Wait. Are you the woman on the platform? The one who took Quinn? You talked to Nicole?”

I hesitate. I don’t want to set him off.

“Nicole pushed Quinn into my arms. I didn’t know what was going on or what she was about to do. If I’d known, I would have …” My eyes fill with tears. I can’t help it. “Your sister begged me to keep Quinn safe. To watch out for her, take care of her. Those were the last words she said. I didn’t know who she was. I had to tell you that.”

He walks toward me until we’re face-to-face in the driveway. His eyes scan me, and I recoil from his scrutiny. Grief and doubt start to cloud his face. “Morgan Kincaid, right?”

I nod.

“Detective Martinez wanted to know if I knew a woman named Morgan Kincaid. And I said no. And now you’re here. You know, you actually look a bit like my sister.”

“I didn’t know your sister before yesterday. Do you think she chose me because we look alike?”

“Chose you? That detective told me to let her know if you tried to contact me. Said she can’t figure out how you knew my sister. That your husband also committed suicide and he was all mixed up in stealing millions of dollars. That you were a ‘person of interest’ in relation to my sister.” Quinn screams, and he flinches, pushing his unruly hair off his forehead, a muscle ticking in his sharp, angular jaw.

Instinctively, my hands go out to quiet the child. He pulls Quinn away. “Whoa. What are you doing? What is it you want from me? I’m going to call Detective Martinez.”

He must be around six foot three because he looms over my five-foot-seven frame. But I don’t shrink back. I’m banking on my gut instinct that he wants to hear me out. He hasn’t gone inside, and he hasn’t actually dialed Martinez, so there must be something he’s looking for from me.

I have nothing to lose. “Amanda,” I say.

His face drains of color, and my heart speeds up.

“What did you just say?” His eyes are huge, his face set in an expression of shock and disbelief.

I reach into my purse for the Post-it. I uncrumple it and put it right in front of his face.

Just then, there’s an ear-piercing screech of tires. We both turn to see a car speeding down the street, going faster and faster.

It’s a dark blue Prius. And it’s racing straight for us.





CHAPTER FOURTEEN NICOLE