Woman on the Edge(52)

We start to slow and get caught in a pocket of traffic. “Just when we were making good progress,” he says. Then he looks at me, steadily, seriously. “I don’t know you well, Morgan, but what I’ve seen is that you put everyone else before yourself. That’s what my mom always did. She made everyone feel good, safe, and loved. You were there for Nicole when she needed you. It could have been anyone, but I’m glad it was you.” He smiles at me. “Ryan was an idiot.”

I laugh, but it’s tinged with sadness. “So was I. I still wonder if I could have saved him, if I’d listened to my gut.”

“You can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved.” He shakes his head, dark waves falling into his eyes. “I should take my own advice. And yes, I always thought I’d have a wife and kids, but my schedule is all-consuming, and the women I’ve dated got tired of being woken in the middle of the night by my pager.” He glances at me. “You miss him?”

I wrinkle my nose. “It’s a hard question to answer. I miss the man I fell in love with. But I don’t miss the man who left me to take the blame for his crimes.” I feel flushed and awkward. “I can’t believe I just told you all that.”

“I’m surprised at how personal I’ve gotten with you, too.” He scratches the stubble on his jaw. “I don’t really get women.”

He looks at me quickly then away. The traffic begins to ease, and we’re on our way again.

I fold my hands in my lap because I don’t know what to do with them. I’d like to touch his warm skin, and I can’t. I won’t. “Do you think Greg’s taking care of Quinn? Properly, I mean. Feeding her enough? Holding her when she cries? Keeping her sleep schedule?”

He tightens his hands on the wheel. “I don’t think he’s the nurturing type. But he’s her father. He must care for her, right?”

“I really hope so.” I let out a sigh that carries a world of pain. “Could you call him maybe? See how Quinn’s doing?”

“Yes, for sure. I’ve been thinking I would. I’ll call when we’re there.” His face falls. “What are we going to do if we find Donna? What if she’s dangerous?”

“I have pepper spray.”

He laughs out loud, and it uncoils the cramp in my stomach. I close my eyes, unable to think anymore. I’m so tired from the lack of sleep, stress, and fear of the last few days that I don’t realize I’ve fallen asleep until the car stops, and I lurch forward. I collect myself and take in a small, three-story house with white aluminum siding visible through a copse of pines a few feet ahead.

“Is this Donna’s house?” I glance at the time on his dash. It’s just after noon on a weekday. Donna might not be home. Now that we’re here, I’m not sure I want her to be home. I’m scared.

Ben nods and rests his hand on the door handle. “I’m glad you got some rest.”

“I was so tired. Thank you for letting me sleep.”

His ears turn red. “Ready?”

I nod and touch the pepper spray in my purse, wondering, not for the first time, how my life has come to this. I curl my hand around the small canister, and we venture up the gravel driveway where a black Chevy Impala is parked. We continue to the dilapidated front of the house, crumbling with neglect. If something were to happen to me, would Ben fight for Quinn? I think he would.

“We’ll just see if she’s here and talk to her,” he says.

I follow Ben up a small stone walkway leading to a porch, gray paint cracked and peeling. My ankle’s still a bit sore, but I’m able to walk steadily. There are three orange rail planters, filled with pastel-colored flowers that brighten the otherwise sad little house. The sky is so blue and calm, the neighborhood so idyllic and peaceful; it’s incongruous with the panicky rhythm of my heart.

Ben stops. “Should we knock?”

I take a deep breath and nod, even though I’m petrified. His knock sounds so loud on this quiet, serene street. Nothing happens. He knocks again, and a tinny voice calls out, “Coming!”

We wait for a full two minutes, both staring at each other, then the door opens. It’s her, in the flesh: Donna. She’s emaciated and pale. She doesn’t look like a threat at all. But what stands out is her thick, wavy, blazing red hair. It’s frizzy and unbrushed, an uncared-for mess. She could be the woman in the Prius. It’s entirely possible. But I can’t reconcile this frail woman with the stalker who has put us in danger.

Donna’s hand trembles against the doorframe. She opens her mouth but utters not a word.

Ben stays perfectly still. I slowly step forward, so I don’t spook her. “Ms. Taylor, I’m Morgan Kincaid. And, of course, you remember Ben, though it’s been a while.” They look at each other.

“You’re Nicole’s brother. The one who came to get her after she … after Amanda died.”

“Yes,” he says, then looks down at his shoes.

“Ben and I wanted to ask you some questions, if you don’t mind.”

She quivers in front of me, as though I frighten her. “Why are you here?” she asks, her hand at her mottled throat. “Are you a reporter?” She puts shaky fingers to her lips and looks at Ben again. Tears fill her eyes.

Before I can say another word, she makes a move to close the door, and I put my foot in the jamb. I say, “Wait! Please! We just want to talk to you. There’s a child at risk.”