Woman on the Edge(33)
Jabbering, I fidget uncomfortably and watch Ben’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. He doesn’t say anything.
“I’m hoping you can tell me something, or we can find something in the house that connects me to your sister, because things are looking bad for me. Martinez seems to think I might have had a hand in what happened to Nicole. But as you can see, I don’t. And I’m worried for Quinn and myself. And now, for you, too. Someone wants to hurt us.” I swallow, hoping I’m not pushing too far.
“I—” He pulls at the neck of his shirt. “I don’t know what might be here to help you. Us. I’ve been here only a few times.”
“Have the police searched the house?” I ask.
“No. My attorney told me this morning that a warrant for Nicole’s residence hasn’t been granted. Her husband, Greg, won’t give consent. Apparently, his attorney has been trying to hold off the Crime Scene Unit until Nicole’s will is released because Greg has a legal right to the house. Fourth Amendment at work. Nicole’s will won’t be made public for a while yet, I don’t think.”
My stomach turns. I’m hiding the fact that part of Nicole’s will is in my in-box. That his sister has given me, not him, custody of Quinn. But how can I tell him when I don’t know what kind of man he really is? I didn’t know what kind of man Ryan was until he died. Why wasn’t Nicole closer to her brother? I need more information before I can trust Ben. And I need to look around here for clues linking me to Nicole—fast, before Martinez finds out I’m here.
Ben looks over at Quinn, then observes me. He’s looking for the truth, trying to see if he can find it in my eyes.
I assess him right back, and pretend I’m not crushed when he doesn’t say a word.
Suddenly, he gets up and paces across the sand-colored stone floor. Every time he walks toward me, I see the raw grief and bewilderment all over him. They’re the same emotions that slammed me after Ryan’s suicide.
His hair flops in his face and he sighs. “I should call Martinez and I will, but you’re the last person to talk to my sister, and I have no clue what the hell is going on here. Just a couple of weeks ago, Nicole was fine. Stressed and exhausted, but not what I would have called desperate or terrified. Nicole was—she was a force. I never imagined … But then yesterday, I get the call that tells me what she did. Then Greg’s assistant called and asked me to take Quinn. He didn’t even call me himself. The assistant said he was on his way to New York and that he and Nicole weren’t even living together anymore. I was stunned. I had no idea they were having troubles. I could barely process what I was hearing. I still can’t. I don’t even know where Greg is—here or in New York. He hasn’t answered my calls or emails. What kind of a man leaves his daughter just like that? What kind of a man doesn’t rush back when his wife is … gone?”
My stomach clenches. “I don’t know.”
Ben shakes his head. “Anyway, I raced to the police station, where a detective told me they were investigating Nicole’s death. Martinez thinks you pushed her. But there’s more going on, right?” He narrows his eyes at me. “So who the hell are you really? Please explain that. And how you know about Amanda.”
He looks so baffled that my heart aches. Ben is her family. Nicole’s family. I’m no one to them.
I reach into my purse and show him the purple note.
“I found this stuck to my bag after Nicole jumped. She must have given it to me for a reason. I don’t want to cause you any more pain, but it’s clear to me we’re in this together, whether we want to be or not. The sooner we figure out how Nicole knew me and why she gave me Quinn, the sooner we can figure out what the hell is going on. And part of the answer has got to be this.”
Ben’s shoulders start to shake. He’s crying. “Amanda is dead. She died almost twenty years ago.”
I wait. I don’t press for more.
He sticks his hand in his pocket, and I’m sure he’s about to call Martinez, but then he says, “I’m going to show you something because I don’t know what the hell else to do. I’ve never talked to anyone about this.”
From his shorts, he retrieves a black wallet. Then he pulls out a yellowed newspaper clipping, holding it tightly in his fingers.
“Before I show you this, you have to understand that I became Nicole’s legal guardian when I was twenty and she was seventeen. We had no one else. Our parents died in an accident. And then I fucked everything up.” He stares at his sneakers. “I found this on Nicole’s floor when I was last here. She asked me to take it, so I did. I should have stayed with her, realized this was a call for help. But she was always so proud and always pushed me away.”
As he passes me the newspaper clipping, our fingers touch. I unfold and gently smooth out the paper. It’s an obituary from the Kenosha News for Amanda Taylor, who died at only six months old in 1998. Time stops, and I look from the paper to Ben.
“Telling anyone is very hard. Nicole was Amanda’s nanny. Amanda died in Nicole’s care.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say. Ben’s face has aged in seconds.
“When I became responsible for Nicole, I tried to be like my dad, firm and tough, but she had no respect for me as an authority figure. She ran away, all the way to Wisconsin, where she became a nanny. And then this happened. I thought she’d gotten past it, though. We never talked about it. But she kept the clipping. And gave it to me that day, the last day I saw her.”