Woman on the Edge(58)
Martinez allows me to get my computer from my apartment and I hand it and my phone over to her. Wearing latex gloves, she puts them into bags, sealing them tightly.
“Please, Detective Martinez, I really think Quinn and I are in danger. Ben, too.”
She pats the evidence bags. “Sociopaths are excellent liars. But they get caught because they think they’re smarter than everyone else.”
She stalks away, taking my only link to Ben with her.
Once she’s gone, I rub my stomach, where a cramp has formed. Jessica stands there looking tense. “What if she finds something, Jessica?”
“If you haven’t done anything, you don’t have to worry, right?” She asks it as a question, which I don’t like.
“This won’t end for me until I find out how I’m connected to Nicole.”
“That’s actually not the most important thing right now. We need to clear you of any involvement in Nicole’s death.” She lays a hand on my arm. “Sometimes you don’t get all the answers you want. You know that.”
She gives my arm a squeeze, then gets in her Mercedes and drives away. I sit on the rough curb outside my apartment. There’s only one person in all this who I would really like to meet. Nicole’s “best friend.” Tessa Ward.
If anyone knows something, it’s her. Maybe she has all the answers I need to prove my innocence.
All I have to do is find her.
* * *
I walk over to the closest T-Mobile, buy a cheap burner phone, and beg the cashier to look up the address for Breathe headquarters. Then I send Jessica and Ben my new number. I’ve already memorized his. She texts back that she received my message. Ben doesn’t text back at all.
It takes me twenty-five minutes to drive to West Armitage Avenue and North Halsted Street, where both the Breathe shop and main headquarters are located, and find a spot to park.
I’m terrified to face Nicole’s friend. “You can do this for Quinn. And for yourself,” I whisper.
My hands are clammy as I walk the quaint block toward West Armitage and push open the doors to Breathe. For all my courage, now that I’m inside the store that belonged to Nicole, that she created, I need to hold on to a clothing rack because my head spins. This is the closest I’ve felt to her, to Nicole.
The store, with its calming sea-foam walls and the light scent of essential oils infusing the air, is bustling with shoppers and salespeople. I don’t see an entrance to the headquarters from in here. I go back outside and stride straight into the building next door, looking up to see four levels separated by glass railings, a skylight spilling sunshine onto the bamboo flooring below. There’s a security guard manning the desk, and I’m sure there are cameras.
“I’m here to see Tessa Ward,” I say as confidently as I can manage.
“And your name, ma’am?” he asks.
It’s now or never. “Morgan Kincaid,” I say.
He makes a call, then says curtly, “Come with me,” and flashes a key card over the button for the fourth floor.
I’m in.
The elevator doors ping, and I step off into an elegant reception area. Pale blue walls hold framed photos of women and men posing in yoga wear under fiery orange sunsets and on golden-sand beaches. For a split second, I wish Ben were here beside me.
I’m very surprised when a minute later, a woman with white-blond hair and red-rimmed eyes steps in front of me. She’s tiny, wearing a flowery sundress, definitely under five foot three. She barely reaches my shoulder.
She extends a slim hand for me to shake, and I do. Her skin is soft, her hand cool. “I’m Tessa Ward.”
“Thank you for meeting with me. I’m … I didn’t …” I stumble on my words, wrong-footed by her calm demeanor.
“Let’s go to my office.”
I follow her, curling my body to make myself smaller so I don’t tower over her petite figure. She gestures toward two bright orange chairs in a room filled with hangers of athletic wear and shelves stacked with bottles of oils and tubes of cream.
I sit and watch her for signs of anger or hatred, but her face is composed, though her grief is evident in the black circles around her eyes.
I dig my nails into my neck. “I’m really sorry for barging in on you like this,” I say. “I see you already know who I am.”
“The woman on the platform,” she says. “You called Greg earlier today.”
I look down at my feet and wonder how much Greg has told her. “Yes. That’s me. Look,” I say. “I didn’t know Nicole at all. And I feel weird coming here, but I really need some answers. Nicole was scared on that platform, before she jumped. She was very, very scared.”
I look carefully at her turquoise eyes, hoping I can see the truth.
She doesn’t respond to my ramblings. Instead she asks, “Can I get you some tea? We have a lovely herbal line I created when Nicole was sick. It’s still under in-house development. We decided today that when it’s ready for the market, we’re going to call it ‘Nicole.’ ”
This woman was her best friend, and I can see she’s mourning a loss. I have a sudden urge to cry, but I fight it. “That’s a really lovely gesture,” I say. “I won’t have any tea right now, but thanks for offering.” I struggle to find the appropriate words. “I’m so sorry about Nicole.” I wish that was the first thing I’d said to her.