“You still there?” Somers asks.
“Yes.”
“Listen,” Somers says. “I think the Westman story goes way back. My mother used to say that our fate is laid out for us a century before we’re born. People might rob a corner store on a whim, or stab someone in a fight, but this stuff? Murder, people vanishing, shady business? This stuff goes further back than any of us can see. A lot of people are tangled up in this web, right? Stacey might have been one of them. I didn’t want your bias, I’ll admit that. But I also hoped you’d bring some fresh eyes. I didn’t want to taint you with my cynical cop shit.”
Clare shifts the papers around on the bed. She will make Somers wait for a response. Her gaze lifts to the minibar in the corner of the room. She thinks of the heat down her throat, the warm coating of one of those small bottles. Just one. No, she tells herself. No.
“I need you to do something for me,” Clare says.
“Okay,” Somers says, suspicious.
“I want to go visit Donovan Hughes in prison. The Roy Mason Correctional Facility, it’s called.”
“I know it well,” Somers says.
“Donovan Hughes was Jack Westman’s business partner. Visiting hours end at five, but I’ve got a stop to make en route and I might be a little late. Can you call ahead?”
“You want me to ask them to roll out the red carpet?”
“I’m sure you’ll think of some excuse,” Clare says.
Somers laughs. “I guess I will. And hey, I might have something else for you. Something came across my desk earlier today. Can I email it to you?”
“Sure,” Clare says.
“Hang on. Sending.”
Through the receiver Clare can hear the pressing of buttons, the whoosh of a file being sent. She clicks on her phone to summon the message through. The email arrives and Clare opens the attachment. It is a handwritten note.
Tell C this is where to find me. There is an email address written down too.
“You think that’s for me?” Clare asks.
“It could be for someone else whose name starts with C. I’ve got a few dumb-looking beat cops around here named Clark or Cal. But my gut—and I like to think my gut is pretty smart—it tells me that it’s Malcolm reaching out to you. What do you think? Could it be?”
“Maybe,” Clare says. “Why not just write my name, though?”
“Has this guy ever made any sense to you?” Somers asks.
“No,” Clare answers. “Not really.”
“Okay, so. Here’s the part where I give you a cop speech. Maybe it’s my conscience talking here. You can do whatever you want, and I’m going to shred this piece of paper, and I’m not going to ask you any questions, but you know there’s a warrant out for his arrest, right? What side is he on? I want you to remember that he could be dangerous. That makes me really antsy, especially after all this talk about your objectivity. Corresponding with him isn’t the best move on your part.”
Clare remains silent.
“Wait. You haven’t already heard from him, have you?”
It galls Clare to be asked. “No,” she says forcefully. “No, Somers. I have not.”
“Okay,” Somers says. “Sorry. But if you hear from him, you need to go straight to the German guy.”
Despite her ire, Clare smiles. “You mean Germain.”
“Ha. Germain. Okay, listen. I’ve got a meeting. You call me anytime, okay? I want you to know that you can. Anytime. No more secrets. Okay?”
“Okay,” Clare says.
After she hangs up Clare reads the note over and over again. Has she ever seen Malcolm’s handwriting? Jason wouldn’t be capable of penmanship so neat. Clare opens a new message on her phone and carefully types in the address from the attachment, the tag a random stream of letters and numbers, nothing to indicate it belongs to Malcolm. This could all be a trick; Jason could be behind it. Nonetheless, she writes.
It’s Clare. I was told this was your email address.
She presses send, then clutches her phone and lies back on the bed. Clare closes her eyes and counts her breath. Ten minutes must pass before she feels the phone buzz in her hands. The incoming email has no sender name, but it is from the address Somers gave her.
Clare,
I’m glad you wrote. Before anything else, I want to say that I’m sorry. It was never my intention to drag you into this or to leave you without a valid explanation. I know where you are. I know you’ve been digging. I implore you to stop. It could be very dangerous for both of us. Please trust that I can handle this myself. You are good at this work and could continue to do it in whatever capacity you want. Just please, do not search for Zoe or for me. It’s not safe and I’m not sure I could bear to see you hurt on my behalf.
You remain on my mind, Clare. I regret how things were left between us.
M
The effort to read the email again, then again, wraps Clare in a wave of nausea. She cannot decrypt her reaction, whether his words have made her angry or sad, or relieved. The formality of his message concerns her. The repetition of her name. Malcolm often repeated her name when they spoke in person too. Clare. She can almost hear him saying it. Another reaction bubbles inside her, deep in her gut. The longing. She lifts the phone and hits reply.
I am not going to stop digging. And don’t tell me you’re sorry. That word means nothing.
Clare hovers her thumb over the delete button for a moment before continuing to type.
I’m still here, Malcolm. You know where to find me.
C
This time Clare hits send and watches the line edge across the screen as the note leaves her out-box.
