“I’ll steer clear of any questions you don’t want me to ask. I’ll talk to you whenever or wherever is convenient for you. This can all be on your terms.”
“No.” She began to shut the door.
“Do you think Clarke Mead knew the truth?” he rushed to say.
She stilled. “What are you talking about?”
“You know.”
“You’re being vague and not giving me any hard facts.”
He studied her a moment, like a poker player trying to decide whether he should show his hand.
“I can read your expression,” she said. “Overplay and she’ll slam the door in my face. But if I don’t lay it all out, she’ll still slam the door in my face. Basically, you have nothing to lose.” Her heartbeat jacked up a notch; she hoped this was simply a bluff.
“It’s about your son,” he said, dropping his voice.
“My son?” A swift chill swept over her, freezing her muscles, her lungs, her heart. “What about him?”
“I didn’t bring this up the last time because I don’t want to have this conversation on a porch,” he said. “This is going to be awkward for both of us.”
Ann raised her chin, did her best to look annoyed, and hoped the expression did not betray the fear clawing at her insides. “What is so awkward for us?”
Again, in a hushed tone: “Did your late husband know Nate was not his biological son?”
“Who told you something like that?” she said quietly.
He adjusted his backpack on his shoulder. “I’ve interviewed several of the Fireflies.”
“Fireflies.” Her laugh was mirthless. “Elijah Weston’s groupies.”
“Yeah.”
“What do any of them know about my son or me?” She shook her head, forcing her gaze to challenge him.
“More than you realize.”
“Honestly, Mr. Thompson, it takes balls to knock on a woman’s door and accuse her of cheating on her dead husband.”
“The boy was born seven months after you and Clarke married.”
Her heartbeat pounded in her ears. “So? Clarke and I dated our senior year.”
“You testified at Elijah’s trial. I read the transcripts. You and Clarke were broken up at the time of the fire.”
Her eyes narrowed as she clung to her bravado. “This feels like a fishing expedition, Mr. Thompson.”
“The Fireflies believe Elijah Weston is the boy’s father. If they saw the resemblance, then Clarke must have known it. I’ve seen pictures of your late husband. He doesn’t look anything like the boy.”
As her stare locked on his green eyes, whatever words she had assembled scrambled away. Her skin puckered with an uneasiness as she thought about crazy groupies discussing her son.
A dark SUV pulled up in front of her house, and Bryce got out, holding a manila file. He was wearing jeans, a black T-shirt, boots, and a hat. His service weapon was holstered at his side. Mirrored sunglasses hid Bryce’s eyes as he approached, but his lips flattened, and his jaw tensed as he looked from her to Paul Thompson.
“Dr. Bailey,” Bryce said carefully. “There any trouble here?”
Thompson took a step back, his gaze still locked on Ann. “No trouble. We were having a conversation.”
“Judging by Dr. Bailey’s expression,” Bryce said, “she’s not liking what you’re saying.”
“It’s fine,” Ann said. “Mr. Thompson is producing a podcast about Elijah Weston, and he wants my input. I’ve declined, but he’s trying to sway me.”
“No means no, pal,” Bryce said.
Thompson removed a card from his pocket and handed it to Ann. “In case you lost the other one. I’m in town now for another week. Call me anytime.”
She accepted the card. “Have a nice day, Mr. Thompson.”
“You as well, Dr. Bailey.” Thompson turned, his long strides eating up the distance to the gray four-door rental car.
When Thompson drove off, Bryce’s gaze still lingered on the street as he spoke. “What did he want?”
“He’s like all the others.” Weariness dusted the words. “He wants an interview.”
“You’ve had requests before. Whatever he said rattled you.”
“I’m a little sleep deprived.” It wasn’t far from the truth.
Bryce shifted his gaze to her, his mirrored glasses tossing back her own reflection. Silent, he regarded her.
“Is that how you look at suspects?” Her attempt to flip this back on him fell flat.
He nodded slowly. “It’s a warm-up.”
“It’s not working.”
He shook his head. “I’m not going to interrogate you, Ann. But I can see that the man upset you. And after the last year, that’s saying something. If you need to talk to me, you can trust me.”
Oddly, she believed him. “I wasn’t expecting him. He caught me off guard.” She stepped back. “Come on inside. Murder is far more interesting than me.”
He hesitated another beat and then crossed the porch into the house. Removing his hat and glasses, he kept the file tucked under his arm as he surveyed the living room, which was more cluttered than when he had last seen it. “How’s the unpacking going?”
“Slow. And Hurricane Nate will be home tomorrow night, so I’m running out of time. School starts next week, and then life really gets crazy, and yet here I stand in chaos.”
“Couple of days’ work should take care of all this.”
“But it’s finding the desire to unpack.” Shaking her head, she tried to summon a smile.
He traced the silver buckle on the leather hatband as he walked toward the stacks of books. Most of the books were about all manner of death and crime. There were a couple of fiction ones, and those were murder mysteries. “What would you be avoiding, Dr. Bailey?”
“The rest of my life?” she asked lightly. “It scares the hell out of me.”
A half smile tweaked his lips, as if he were familiar with the feeling. “You can try to hide from it, but either way, it’s going to keep coming toward you like a stampeding herd of horses.”
She flicked the edge of Thompson’s card. “I know.”
“Can I help? I’m handy with assembling bookcases.”
Silence settled, and normally she used it to her advantage. Students often rushed to fill the quiet, and when they did, she always learned important tidbits. However, now the stillness coiled around her nerves. Paul Thompson’s words had rattled her, and Bryce knew something was off. She did not care what people might say about her, but she worried about Nate losing the last pillar of his shattered family.
Ann looked at Bryce, wanting to confess all this to him so he could point her toward the clear path. But finding the words was her problem. “You can help me drink the pot of fresh coffee I made. I did promise you coffee.”
He considered her. “Yes, you did.”
“This way.” She guided him past more boxes and into the small galley-style kitchen sequestered from the dining area by a small island. The preset coffee machine gurgled, and the coffee cups were set out, along with sugar and milk.
“Just black,” he said.