Have You Seen Me?(58)

My phone rings as I’m tearing off the dry-cleaning plastic on my trench coat. It’s Roger. Please, I think, don’t let him be calling to tell me that Corbet wants to see me again.

“Ally, hi,” he says when I answer. “Everything okay?”

“Pretty much. I’m sorry I haven’t called you yet. I so appreciate everything you did yesterday.”

“Don’t be silly, you’ve got a ton on your mind. I just wanted to check in, make sure you weren’t fretting.”

I sigh. “Unfortunately, it’s been hard to keep the fretting at bay. Any luck with Nowak?”

“No, you were right. He told me he wasn’t at liberty to discuss the case. Even managed to sound a little blunt with me, which isn’t his usual style.”

Is the bluntness a sign that he’s suspicious of me?

“Seems like the best course of action is to leave well enough alone,” Roger continues. “You did your part. And if they decide to open up the investigation again, you’ll know soon enough. No need to worry.”

“I appreciate the advice, Rog.” I just wish I could follow it.

“Any more news from your private detective? What’s his name—Mulroney?”

I take a minute to fill him in on the latest bread crumbs Mulroney’s provided, and we sign off afterward, promising to check in with each other again soon.

I try not to let the news about Nowak’s bluntness agitate me, but it does regardless. Plus, I’m still in the dark about the early days of the case. If I want details, I’m going to have to hightail it back to New Jersey and go through microfilm archives. I honestly don’t feel up to it in my current state, however, and I consider my options.

Nicole doesn’t have a car, and I wouldn’t want her to wonder why I was looking into a decades-old murder, anyway. But there’s another researcher I’ve used in the past, a married mom of two named Jennifer who lives in Madison, New Jersey, which is probably less than an hour from Millerstown. I shoot her a quick email asking if she’s available to go to a nearby library and photocopy everything from the Hunterdon County Gazette on the murder of Jaycee Long.

I know this sounds a little off-brand for me, I add in a P.S. But I’m helping an author friend who writes true crime.

Just thinking about tracking down those articles is adding to my agitation. It’s time to go. I grab my iPad and stuff it into my purse. Glimpsing through the windows, I see that the rain is coming down harder now. That’s okay, I think. It’s a perfect night for sipping wine in a cozy bistro.

But by the time I’m one block away from my building, I’m experiencing a flutter of foreboding and wishing I hadn’t left. I feel as if I’ve heard my name whispered in a darkened hallway when I thought I was the only one present.

And then, once again, I have that strange sense that someone is watching me. I freeze, one foot arched in a half step.

Slowly I turn and scan my eyes over the people streaming around me, umbrellas bobbing and dripping with rain. No one seems out of place or even to notice me.

I resume walking, but I can’t shake my unease. I turn again, glancing quickly behind me, and as I swing back around, my gaze falls on the sleeve of my trench coat, where beads of water have begun to gather on the outer edge.

Suddenly, a memory surfaces, unbidden. Me grabbing tissues. Wiping off fingers smeared with blood. My own fingers.

The thought makes me reel, but I try to grab hold of the image. Still, as quickly as it came, it slips from my grasp.

I’m at an intersection now, waiting for the light to change. I wonder if I should turn back.

But before I can decide, there’s a jab between my shoulder blades, and then I feel something really hard being rammed into my back, knocking the air from my lungs and pitching me forward.

A second later, I fly into the street.





23


I land hard and skid across the wet pavement, my palms burning as the asphalt tears my flesh. A horn blares, then another, and a car screeches to a halt only inches from my head, it seems. Terrified, I squeeze my eyes shut, as if that could protect me.

I sense people scrambling, and when I open my eyes, I see that several pedestrians have clustered around me.

“Are you okay?” a woman asks, squatting down.

“Better not touch her,” a male voice says.

“No, I’m okay,” I mutter, lifting my head. “I—” I’m having a hard time even catching a breath.

More horn blaring, insistent and irritated.

“Are you able to get up?” the woman says. She’s in her twenties, I guess, and I feel instantly grateful for her kindness.

“Uh, I think so.”

The man, who turns out to be middle-aged, and the woman help me struggle into a standing position and hobble to the other side of the street. The man has grabbed my umbrella and hands it back to me, still furled.

“Did you see who did it?” I ask.

“Did it?” the woman says.

“Pushed me.”

She shoots the man a look. “I think you slipped,” she says, glancing back at me. “The sidewalk’s really wet.”

“No, I felt it,” I tell her. “A shove.”

“A couple of people were trying to cross against the light,” the man says. “And I think one of them must have jostled you. Are you sure you’re okay? Can we call anyone?”