Bleeding Darkness. Brenda Chapman
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to sit with her.
She laughed. “I know. I’m incorrigible, aren’t I?” She sat back in the chair. She ran a hand absentmindedly through her hair, which had loosened from a clip at the back of her neck. The green sweater she was wearing had stretched and lost its shape over time but he would bet that she couldn’t care less. “Okay, change of subject,” she said. “What do you do for fun?”
“For fun?”
“On those long winter evenings when you’re not at work? Do you have a secret life?”
“No, but now I’m wondering if you do.” He thought of what to tell her and realized his world sounded boring no matter how he spun it. Simple honesty would have to do. “I spend most long winter evenings with my father, cooking supper and discussing the news over a glass of Scotch.”
“That sounds lovely. I met your dad once and found him utterly charming.”
“He is that. He’s started working on a puzzle of a medieval city and recruits me to help slot pieces into place. Five thousand pieces of mainly grey and black is proving to be a challenge. He says it will help to keep Alzheimer’s at bay. I’m starting to believe he’s secretly offering this preventative measure for me rather than himself.”
“Once a parent.”
“Always a parent.”
She toasted him with her glass. “No kids, Jacques?”
“No.”
She tilted her head and rested her chin on the back of her hand as she studied him. “You would have made a good father. I was sorry to hear about the death of your ex-wife.”
He nodded. Even now, he couldn’t bear to talk about Frances. He asked instead, “And you? Any kids?”
“I raised my two younger sisters if that counts. My father died soon after Cicely was born and my mother became a hopeless drunk. She hid it enough to hold down a job but we never knew when or if she’d make it home. My dad was the love of her life and we were a poor substitute.”
“I’m sorry.” He could see more pain in her face than she was likely aware. He could imagine how these early experiences had shaped her into the reporter she’d become: dogged, closed off, and tough.
“No need. I’ve long since reconciled. Cicely and Wendy are both in long-term relationships and doing fine. I’m in good shape too.” Her mouth raised in a self-mocking half smile.
They stopped talking when the food arrived. Marci ordered a second drink and Rouleau declined.
“So, will you be staying in Kingston much longer?” he asked after they’d both eaten a few bites.
“Good question. I’ve had another offer in New York, back at my old paper. I’m not sure returning would be a smart move. Plus, the Whig offered me the assistant editor job, which I turned down for now after some reflection. They’ve left the door open.”
“Why did you turn it down?”
“Honestly? I like being a reporter and came to realize that I might be giving too much up after I took the editing gig for a few months. Be careful what you wish for, huh?”
“Is your ex still an editor at the New York Times?”
“He is. He’s also the one asking me to go back with a raise and the job I’ve been after since I started. Top dog on the foreign desk.”
“Sounds like he wants to get back with you.”
“One would assume.” She picked up her drink and sighed. “I’m not sure I can do it anymore.” She took a long swallow and set the glass back down. “What would you do in my position?” Her eyes searched his face.
“I’m probably not the best one to ask.”
“That’s okay. I’m staying put anyhow. Kingston has grown on me.”
“Well, that’s good to hear.”
“I’m surprised you would say that, considering how I’m often a thorn in the Kingston Police’s backside.”
“The role of keeping police and politicians honest can’t be underestimated.” He would have added that he respected her quick intelligence and enjoyed their conversations but his phone rang before he had the chance. He glanced at the number. “Sorry, I have to take this.”
“Take your time.”
He felt her eyes on him as he turned sideways and listened even though she continued eating. The call ended without him giving anything away. He knew he could leave without telling her about the tragic turn of events, but this seemed short-sighted given that she’d know soon enough and likely take back the neutral ground they’d forged over lunch. He raised a hand toward the waitress and signalled for the bill. “A woman’s body has been found on the Rideau Trail and I’m heading there now if you want to follow. I expect the Whig will have a reporter there soon in any case.”
Marci was already hitting speed dial on her cell. “Is it the missing woman?” she asked as she held the phone up to her ear.
“Too early to confirm.”
She spoke in clipped sentences, holding the phone tucked between her ear and chin while standing to shrug into her coat at the same time. Rouleau was at the cash paying for their meals when she pulled her bill from his hand. “Thanks, but I’ll pay for my own. Best not to owe. I’m to follow you out to the scene and a cameraman will meet me there.” Her face was flushed and she looked almost radiant in her rush to get the story that would rock the city in a matter of hours, sooner if it was leaked on social media.
“I hope you have boots in your car,” he said, looking down at her running shoes. Her fall trench coat wouldn’t do either on this frigid afternoon.
“I can’t get used to your northern weather, but I have clothing reinforcements in my back seat for these last-minute occasions.” She patted his arm as he stepped aside so that she could use the machine to pay. “Thanks for this, Rouleau. Believe me, I won’t soon forget.”
The day reminded Lauren of that time fourteen long years ago when they’d been waiting for news of Zoe. The same frantic feeling in her stomach. The same sickening sense of foreboding that hovered in the house like a dark sorrow, waiting to swoop down and fill every crack and crevice. She’d been relieved when mid-morning Evelyn had announced that she was going to the hospital. Ever eager to please, Saint Mona had gone along to keep her company on death watch. She was the daughter Evelyn no doubt wished she’d had.
Lauren stared across the room at Adam, once again typing on his laptop. He looked exhausted, dark stubble on his cheeks, posture slouched back on the couch with his feet on the coffee table and knees bent, resting the computer on his legs. Tristan was on the phone to his publicist in the kitchen, explaining why he was going to miss an author event they’d booked for him at the end of the week in Calgary. His voice was wheedling, then fake jolly, asking the publicist to line him up anything she could later in the month. For the first time, Lauren wondered how badly her brother needed the money from these speaking engagements. His only truly successful book had been five years ago and she knew that sales had dropped significantly the year before. A reprint had been put on hold.
With the police now looking for Vivian, they’d stopped making their desperate drives down city streets with stops at every bar, restaurant, and store. Each time, Adam would circle the block while she and Tristan entered the businesses and approached the staff. Tristan would talk to the owner or clerk while she checked washrooms and change rooms on the remote chance that Vivian was passed out somewhere. Absurd, but she’d played along to keep Tristan from falling apart. Mona had come for the first run but begged off on the second. Lauren would have liked to do the same.
She heard Tristan end his call and a moment later, he plopped down on the couch next to Adam.
“How’d that go?” Adam asked, fingers resting on the keyboard.
“I