As the woman leaned closer to study the photos, Kozak watched her face as she swiped the photos for her. The woman scrutinized them carefully as Kozak kept repeating the gallery.
After a long moment the woman shrugged.
“I don’t know, maybe.”
“Maybe? Maybe where?”
“At the shelter, maybe, I don’t know.”
“Which one, where?”
“The Sheltering Halo. That way.” She pointed her chin.
“Thank you. You’ve been helpful. Can I get your name?”
She shook her head.
“Who are you, anyway, to come up here?”
“Police.”
“I don’t want to talk to police.”
“That’s all right.” Kozak was going to take her picture but changed her mind and reached for her wallet while nodding to Carillo. They held out fifty in cash for her.
Tears came to the woman’s eyes as she looked at it, making Kozak wonder what had happened in the woman’s life that had led to her living under a freeway. The woman took the cash, grunted her thanks then retreated into the tent, closing her curtain.
Fifty-Eight
Manhattan, New York
Eugene Bickersley’s eyes watered above his breathing tube at Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center.
Jennifer Griffin’s death, and her funeral, which he was unable to attend, was a wound that went deep. But his secret shame and regret for not acting on what he knew about her went deeper.
His Adam’s apple rose and fell.
He turned away from the TV, muted on a Western movie—a wagon train moving across the great plains. His head rustled against his pillow when he looked to his wife, Clara.
There was little left to say.
Dread filled the room and their hearts.
A few days ago, their hopes were high. The possibility he could go home to Buffalo was real. But then Bickersley had experienced a troubling setback.
Now, as they waited for the latest test results, he pretended to watch a movie while Clara was scrolling through family photos.
Soft sounds of activity in the hallway spilled into the room when the door opened and Dr. Samuel Khalid entered.
Bickersley braced. Clara set her phone down and held a breath.
The doctor stood near them both.
“We have the results of the latest tests.” He slid his hands in the pockets of his white coat and looked directly at Bickersley. “I’m afraid there’s no easy way to say this, Eugene. The results are not what we’d hoped for but rather what we feared.”
Clara groaned and Bickersley took her hand.
“We’ll carry on with some therapies,” Khalid said in a soft British accent. “But the progression is closing the window. The situation is all but untreatable.”
“What are my chances?” Bickersley said. “You had me at thirty percent. Where does this put me now? Give it to me straight.”
“As this stage, survival rate is at ten to fifteen percent.”
Bickersley shut his eyes. Clara sobbed, crushing his hand in hers. He could feel her trembling.
Bickersley cleared his throat.
“And the time, Sam? How much?”
“Three to six months.”
Bickersley took a moment to absorb and process the information as the doctor put his hand gently on his shoulder.
“Never abandon hope,” Khalid said. “There is cutting-edge research underway, a joint study with Johns Hopkins in the US and Cambridge in the UK. It’s at the experimental stage with new drugs, but it’s showing promise. We’re endeavoring to get you enrolled as a participant. With your permission, of course.”
“Yes,” Clara said.
“Yes, you have my permission,” Bickersley said. “Thank you, Sam.”
Khalid nodded, tapped Bickersley’s shoulder with encouragement, touched Clara’s shoulder, then left.
As Clara tugged a fresh tissue from the box on the stand, Bickersley turned to the muted movie, which he’d left on, and reflected.
Time was running out for him. Yes, there was hope, but the odds against him were growing with each passing minute.
“We have to pray Dr. Khalid can get you in that study and put you on new drugs,” Clara said.
“We have to prepare for the worst.”
“Gene, please, we can’t give up hope.”
“There are no guarantees.”
“Gene.”
“I want to be in the study. I’ll keep fighting, but I’ve decided there’s one thing I must do while I still can.”
“What?”
“It’s something I cannot and will not carry with me.”
Clara’s eyes searched his as she fought to understand.
“Gene, what are you talking about?”
“It’s about Jennifer Griffin.”
“But she’s—Gene, I don’t understand.”
“Clara, I’m going to tell police what I know about Jennifer Griffin.”
Fifty-Nine
Buffalo, New York
Who was that woman on Zoran’s laptop?
For days the incident had eaten at Lorena Jo Tullev.
She’d only glimpsed the screen when he answered his phone that day, yet Lorena felt she knew the face. But she didn’t get a good look because Zoran had closed his laptop, as if she’d caught him red-handed at something beyond his porn obsession.
It has to be something new he doesn’t want me to know about, maybe involving that woman on his laptop.
Lorena placed four cans of peas in her shopping cart and continued grappling with her predicament.
This laptop thing increased her unease over their increasingly rocky relationship, eroding her trust. For all she knew, Zoran could’ve been looking at something totally harmless and was offended by her suspicions. His refusal to talk about their issues fed her concern that it was something more serious.
If he’s cheating on me, then it’s over.
But if it’s something else, I’ll move heaven and earth to save our relationship because deep down, I have to believe that the Zoran I know is a good man.
As she shopped in the frozen food section, she began working on a plan. She needed to get into Zoran’s laptop to find the truth.