Save Me from Dangerous Men (Nikki Griffin #1)(114)

“I’ve always been scared of being, you know, like a Becky Sharp out of Vanity Fair. Someone who can think, take care of herself, tough, resourceful, but inside … nothing. Just her own well-being. Sometimes I think that would be worse than—worse than a lot of things.”

“Nikki, you’ve never come out and said as much directly, but I get the distinct impression that you have no problem putting yourself in danger to save others. Out of all the things for you to worry about, I wouldn’t worry about a lack of empathy.”

“Maybe. But I still do.”

“The ones who don’t worry are the ones who should worry, I’d say. I’ll tell you what. I’ll keep next week’s slot open for you. Same day, same time. Just in case.”

“Sure. Just in case.”

“All right, then, I’ll see you next week. Maybe.”

“Maybe it is.”





48


The cemetery was in Monterey. I parked my motorcycle by the gated entrance, near a small office. Inside, I found a groundskeeper in jeans and work boots reading a newspaper with the day’s date, November 2. As he put it down on his desk and got up, I saw bold headlines on the front page: a tech CEO dead, a middle-of-the-night FBI raid, chaos. A second, smaller headline announced that a San Francisco law firm had also been implicated. There was an inset picture of Silas Johnson. He didn’t look so cocky as the last time I’d seen him, at the hotel bar. Handcuffs had that effect on people.

Outside, the groundskeeper pointed me in the right direction and then returned to his newspaper. I strolled slowly along a paved path, feeling that odd juxtaposition of tranquility and despair that hung in the air at any cemetery. It was a cool, pleasant morning. The ground slanted down toward a dark-green lily pond and groups of large white geese marched with self-satisfied purpose among polished granite and marble. There was a playground across the street, the top of a yellow slide just visible, and happy children’s voices filtered lightly through the air.

I found her grave after a few minutes of searching. It was new enough that a headstone had not yet been put in and the rectangle of ground was still raw. There were numerous bunches of flowers, though, and someone had set a photograph of her on the ground, propped against a small pile of ocean-smoothed stones. I had my own bouquet that I placed carefully on the grass. I stood quietly in the sunshine for a few minutes and finally sat cross-legged facing the picture, not minding the dewy grass against my jeans. “We saved them, Karen,” I said out loud. “I’m sorry you can’t be here, I’m sorry I didn’t get the chance to know you better, and most of all I’m sorry for letting them get to you—but we saved them.”

There was a simple stone bench nearby, within sight of the grave.

I sat there for a long time before I left.





49


The restaurant was a tiny place on San Pablo Avenue. Just a few tables, all bunched a little too close together so that a person had to squeeze a bit sitting down. An open galley kitchen ran along one side, a battered and ancient gas stove topped with huge pots. The restaurant was run by a Vietnamese couple. The husband cooked and the wife, a tiny woman with black hair and wrinkled cheeks, greeted me warmly and seated me at once.

She looked at the second place setting inquiringly.

“I’m meeting someone. Also, would you mind if I used your phone?” I added, before she walked away.

“No cell phone?” She looked surprised.

“Afraid not,” I said. “No cell phone.”

For some reason, she found this very funny. She broke into peals of laughter. “I thought everyone had cell phones. My mother is ninety-two. Her village only got electricity last fifteen years, but even she has a cell phone.” Still chuckling, she led me over to the front of the little restaurant, where a cord phone was fastened to the wall.

Jess picked up on the second ring. “Who is this?”

“It’s me.”

I heard the relief fill her voice. “You’re okay? I’ve been reading the papers.”

“I’m okay, yeah. How’s he doing?”

“He’s better, now. Much better.”

“Can I have a word with him?”

“Of course.”

There was a pause and then Brandon’s voice came on. His voice sounded clearer, more alert than it had been in a long time. “Nik? Are you okay?”

“I’m okay. How are you?”

“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” my brother answered. “Maybe it’s time I moved on from that place where I’ve been. Maybe I could move closer to you. If that’s still okay?”

I swallowed. “It’s still okay. Yeah.”

“Thanks, Nik. For everything.”

Back at the table, I took an envelope out of my jacket. I opened it and looked through the pictures inside. Faces. One, then another. A young woman with brown eyes and a resolute expression, a spray of freckles across her skin. A Middle Eastern man in his forties, smiling easily as he pointed to something out of the frame. A black woman about my age, wearing a colorful silk shawl, an infant held in her arms. People. People who were alive. People who weren’t being thrown in prison cells or being beaten or lined up and shot. I wished Karen could have been sitting with me. They were her pictures. She had gotten them. I wished that the people in the pictures could know about Karen Li.