Woman on the Edge(40)

I head down North LaSalle, my eyes peeled for a redhead in a dark blue Prius. By the time I park, I haven’t seen any sign of her. I hope Quinn and Ben are okay and she’s not following them.

The strap of my bag cuts into my shoulder, and sweat collects on my upper lip as I trek on my still-aching ankle toward the six-story, redbrick building that houses Greg’s brokerage firm. The earlier coolness has faded, and it’s a steamy afternoon. I already feel damp. I hover at the door. Maybe I should use my social work credentials instead of my connection to Nicole to get in. But if anyone calls Haven House to check, I’m screwed.

The brunette at the reception desk looks up and smiles at me. It’s now or never, so I approach, watching her face for any sign of recognition. She doesn’t glare, and her eyes don’t widen. I’m always wary, always prepared, for that wounding look of apprehension to cross someone’s face. Though that might be all in my mind.

“May I help you?”

I glance around the large open-concept office, where a conference room is set to the left of the front desk and row upon row of cubicles fill every available space. Everyone is either on the phone or hectically tapping keyboards. The tension is high, and it reminds me of Ryan. Late at night, his head in his hands, as he furiously made calls and yelled at his laptop. No one is looking at me, like he never looked at me at the end of his life.

“I’d like to see Greg Markham, please.” My voice squeaks, and heat floods my cheeks.

She narrows her eyes slightly, and I realize she might think I’m a reporter. “May I have your name?”

“Morgan Kincaid.”

I watch her eyes drop to a newspaper on her desk.

She leans away from me. “You’re the woman who was with Nicole when she jumped.”

I feel my polite smile fall from my face. I peer over her desk to see a photo of me on the front page of the day’s paper, taken when I was leaving the police station Monday night. My face is chalk-white, my eyelet dress is wrinkled and grimy, and the camera caught my panic, which could certainly be construed by an outside observer as an expression of guilt.

“What a tragedy. We didn’t get to see her much except for the year-end summer barbecue, but she was lovely.” Then her cheeks go pink. “Do you know why she did it?”

I’m at once disgusted and horrified. This is exactly how I imagine people talked about me and Ryan after he died. With obvious titillation over a juicy story, as though I wasn’t real, wasn’t suffering and mourning his loss and his unconscionable deceit.

I tell myself it doesn’t matter. I straighten and look the woman in the eyes. “I’d like to speak to Greg.”

In a colder voice now, she says, “Sorry, but he’s out of the office today, and I’m not sure when he’s returning. If you leave your contact information, his assistant will be in touch.” She shrugs, then looks down.

I’ve been dismissed. I worry she’ll call Martinez, who will then call Jessica. What am I doing? Jessica’s right. I’m making everything worse for myself. I should just go home and stay put. Dejected, I leave the building. My neck tingles, but it’s not the stifling heat, or my eczema. It’s the dark blue Prius parked at the curb in front of me.

My instinct is to run, but instead I head straight toward the Prius. I’m sick of being scared. I’m sick of being stalked, being a passive victim. I have every right to walk the streets of Chicago without fearing for my life. With my fists pumping and ankle throbbing, I march up to the car and bang on the driver’s-side window.

“Who are you?” My voice is loud, shocking passersby into moving quickly away from me. “What do you want from me?”

The window lowers, and I come face-to-face with a redhead. It’s not Donna Taylor, or, at least, this woman looks nothing like the one in the photo Ben showed me. I’ve never seen this woman before, but if she tried to run us down, it’s time to know why. “Why are you following me?” I spit at her.

She looks shocked and terrified. She presses a button and the window starts to close. Without thinking, I shove my hand into the small space left. The window stops.

“I could have sliced off your hand!” she cries, rolling the window back down an inch.

I put my face as close to the window as I can. “Tell me who you are!”

“Why are you yelling at me?!”

“I’m the woman Nicole was with when she died. Now tell me why you’re after me!”

“Please don’t hurt me.” She holds her hands up like I have a gun.

“Hurt you? You tried to run me over!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. This is my office. I have no reason to follow you. Why are you even here?”

“Did you follow Nicole, too, like you’ve been following me? Did you break into my apartment?”

“You’re crazy! Greg Markham is my boss. I never even met Nicole. Now get away from my car.” Her words are firm, but her voice is tremulous.

She’s scared of me or she’s an excellent actress, either one. I have to stop myself from reaching in and shaking her until her teeth rattle. “I’m not leaving until you tell me the truth. How can a man just leave his child like that? Her mother died, and Greg’s nowhere to be found!” I stick my head right into the window this time. “What kind of person does that? What did he do to Nicole?”