unaccustomed softness to her voice, she said, “I’d almost forgotten about that day...”
“Where were you?”
She lowered herself into the chair next to me, still lost in the photo. I edged in closer and looked on with her. “At the state fair. We went for my birthday. I’d just turned sixteen...”
She placed the photo flat on the table, began gently running her fingers over it.
Then the smile turned sad, and tears filled her eyes. She sniffled, wiped them away quickly, as if to erase any trace of sorrow. It was a side of her I’d seldom seen, and suddenly I felt sorry for her. Unsure what to say, I instinctively put my hand on her arm.
She yanked it away, her sudden refusal making me flinch.
“The pies are baking,” she said, then stood and rushed back toward the stove. “You’re making a mess with those photos. Get them out of my kitchen.”
And so I did, not knowing why that picture had allowed us to connect, and at the same time, not knowing why it had ended so quickly.
But I never forgot how good it felt.
Chapter Eighteen
5:36 a.m.
My moment of rest had turned into hours; I woke up with my clothes still on, still thinking about the nasty- gram on the nightstand. There was no going back to sleep after that. Message received. I wasn’t welcome here. But here I was, and I needed to stay focused.
I thought about Penfield. She’d said Jean’s death wasn’t a suicide, and while the files may have pointed to Michael Samuels as a possible suspect in some kind of abuse, I saw nothing that proved murder. I needed to talk to her, find out why she was so convinced. I glanced at the clock again. She’d be coming off her shift in about an hour.
A driving rain battered the windshield, and suddenly, negotiating the interstate felt more like a challenge than a chore.
I took the off-ramp to Glenview, then about five minutes later, pulled into the lot. Somehow, the rain made the monster-of-a-building look even more ugly.
I dialed Sully.
“I need your help, buddy.”
“You know,” he said, “you really need to work on that phone etiquette. It’s standard practice in this country to say hello before you start asking for stuff.”
“Sorry, I’m stressed.”
“You said that last time.”
“It still applies. Look, I need you to run a name and D.L. number for me.”
“Hang on.” I heard the rustling of paper. “Okay, shoot.”
“Michael Samuels.” I gave him the license number and state from my notes.
“Date of birth?”
“Don’t have one, but I’m guessing he’d be somewhere in his fifties now. The license was active in the seventies—not sure if it still is. Find out anything you can about him…as
“I’m on it.”
I clicked the phone off and looked out my window. The rain was coming down harder now. I glanced at my watch: five ‘til seven. I got out of the car, moved beneath an overhang fifteen feet from the employee exit.
And waited.
About ten minutes later, a slew of employees began filing out the door, umbrellas raised, making it difficult to see if Penfield was among them. I narrowed my focus as they moved past, searching faces while trying to appear inconspicuous. One woman glanced over at me. I smiled. She smiled back. No sign of Aurora Penfield.
I waited another fifteen minutes, in vain.
I knew she’d been working this shift—I’d spoken to her last night. I also knew there was only one door employees were allowed to use as an exit. Had she gone home early? Stayed to work a double? I didn’t have time to wait through another eight hours but desperately needed to speak with her.
I made my way back toward the parking lot, rain stinging my cheeks like tiny pebbles. When I got to my car, I heard two people talking. I looked up toward the employee door.
And there she was, speaking with another person as she made her way out.
Then she rushed toward the parking lot, long, shapely legs moving quickly beneath an umbrella. I jockeyed my position to move into her path. At about ten feet away, she spotted me, and her expression suddenly changed. So did her direction. She did an about-face and hurried back toward the building.
Fat chance.
I quickened my pace and chased after her. She was no match for a desperate reporter wearing sneakers. Moving beside her now, I said, “I have to talk to you.”
She kept walking, steady in her gait, eyes focused straight ahead. “I told you I’ve got nothing to say.”
“It’s important.”
“I don’t care,” she said, increasing her pace, still refusing to look at me. “Get away from me or I’ll call security.”
I stopped moving and stood. “What the hell’s your problem? You give me the damn records, then you want nothing to do with me?”
She stopped too and turned back toward me, her lips tight around her words. “There are security cameras all over this parking lot. I risked my job giving you those records. Do you want me to get fired? I can’t be seen with you. Now go…
She skirted me and headed back toward the parking lot. I followed, raising my voice over the pouring rain. “Then you shouldn’t have given them to me in the first place!”
“Don’t make me sorry I did.” She closed the umbrella, got into her car.
“But you did. So I’m not going anywhere, until you—”
Slam.
Right in my face.
She started the ignition.
She wasn’t getting away—not if I could help it. I began pounding on the window. “Aurora! Open up! Tell me why you’re so sure Jean was murdered. Aurora!”
She looked past me, and panic washed across her face. I swung around and spotted a security guard moving in my direction with angry eyes on me. I turned back to the window just in time to find Penfield reaching for the lever, preparing to shift into reverse. In an act of desperation, I pulled the newspaper photo of Nathan Kingsley and the St. Christopher medal from my pocket, held them against the glass.
Her eyes opened wide in astonishment, then slowly, she moved her gaze up and met mine.
With rain dripping down my face and desperation in my heart, I mouthed the word:
Penfield slammed the car into park, hit the unlock button, then closed her eyes and leaned her head back. I rushed around to the passenger door and got inside.
Chapter Nineteen
She pulled out of the parking lot and onto the main road traveling north. Neither of us spoke. After a few miles, she drove into a rest area and parked.
With hands gripping the wheel, elbows locked, she turned to me and said, “This isn’t just about a magazine
