“It wasn’t intentional, trust me.” Zachary attempted a smile.
“You need to be more careful. Had you been drinking?”
Zachary opened his mouth, and at first, no words came out. He just stared at her. She should have known better. Even if no one had told her it was attempted murder, she should know that he didn’t drink and drive. He didn’t drink irresponsibly. In all the time she had known him, he had never once been drunk.
He found his voice. “No. I wasn’t drunk. Somebody cut my brake lines.”
“Cut your brake lines?” her voice was derisive. “What makes you think that? Somebody’s been watching too many Phillip Marlowe movies.”
“I’m not imagining things. I’m not being paranoid—”
“You’re always paranoid. Your distrust is what drove us apart.”
Not the way he remembered it. Yes, he had sometimes had occasion to question her about her activities, but what did she expect from someone who spent half his time trailing unfaithful spouses?
“The police told me my brake lines were cut,” he informed her, instead of attacking her faulty memory. “They wanted to know who would have motive to kill me.”
She stared back at him. “That obviously wouldn’t be me, since I was trying to save your life just days earlier!”
Zachary felt an uncomfortable chill. He hadn’t accused her of being the one trying to kill him. Was her defensiveness evidence that her anger toward him ran much deeper than he wanted to admit? She claimed she still had friendly feelings toward him but had she already regretted reaching out to him at Christmas? Or had her presence in his bathroom, messing around with his meds, been more sinister than it appeared? It was easy to cover it up with the explanation that she was just trying to keep him from killing himself. But maybe she had been looking for a way to conveniently get rid of him, knowing how he handled the Christmas season.
He shook off the thought. Bridget was right; he did have a deep-seated paranoia surrounding his relationships. A paranoia engendered by repeated abandonment and his inability to form a long-term relationship. What else did she expect from him, given his past?
“I know it wasn’t you,” he said. “It was something to do with work. With one of the cases I’m working on.”
“Oh.” She nodded. Her face softened. “Which one?”
“I don’t know.” Zachary rolled his eyes and forced out a breath, frustrated. “It would be nice if people who left threatening notes would be more specific.”
Unless it wasn’t anything to do with a case. If someone had a personal grudge against him, they wouldn’t have any idea what his current cases were. The threats pointing toward his investigations might just be misdirection. An effort to keep Zachary and the police looking at his current cases instead of his personal connections. That opened up the possibilities to a lot more people.
What about Gordon, Bridget’s new boyfriend? He probably didn’t appreciate having his carefully-arranged Christmas plans disrupted by Bridget running off to her ex’s house to make sure he hadn’t offed himself. Zachary knew little about the man. He had done only very basic background on Gordon; little more than his vital statistics and resume. If Zachary dug deeper, what would he find? A history of violence? Connections with organized crime? A propensity to start fistfights in bars? An auto mechanics course?
“Maybe you should consider a change in career,” Bridget suggested. Not for the first time. It had been a recurring theme during their doomed marriage. Private investigations work was too dangerous. It reflected poorly on her. She was always full of suggestions of things he could do instead, things that held absolutely no interest to him.
Zachary wasn’t looking for a desk job. He liked the ability to leave his computer and head out to the field. He liked the flexibility of working for himself. Having something legitimate to do when he couldn’t sleep. If he were really to be honest, he even liked skirting the law. The minor, not-so-legal things he did to dig out the truth and get justice for his clients. Even that was alluring.
“You need to remove me as your emergency contact.”
Zachary looked at Bridget.
“You can’t have them calling me whenever you get into an accident,” she expanded. “We’re not together anymore, Zachary. I’m not the person they should be calling.”
“Oh.”
He considered this. On the surface, it made sense, of course. But who would he put in her place? He didn’t have any family. No close friends. He couldn’t make every new girlfriend an emergency contact. Someone he barely knew. Besides, what if, like Kenzie, they were in the same car with him when something happened?
“Yeah. Okay.”
Zachary couldn’t drive and hadn’t replaced his car yet, so he took the bus to Molly’s house. He was conscious of his legs and feet as he walked from the bus stop to her door. Walking was not yet automatic. He felt like he did when someone was watching him critically. Awkward, like he didn’t know where to put his feet. He had to think out every step and was sure he must look jerky and robotic to anyone watching him. He had rejected the idea of a cane for stability but was starting to regret it. If nothing else, it would at least signal to anyone watching him that he had a condition, that he wasn’t drunk or impaired but had a good reason for wobbling and hesitating like he did.
Molly answered the door. She looked Zachary over, her eyes bright and curious.
“Come in, come in,” she invited, and opened the door the rest of the way, directing him in.
Zachary’s toe caught on the edge of the carpet at its transition from the floor, and he skittered a bit but managed to avoid flailing or landing on his face. Molly walked to his right and slightly behind him, holding her hands out a bit like she wanted to catch him or guide him to his seat. He got
