She had at least healed over the surface of the old wounds and moved on with her life, which was as much as anyone could ever honestly hope to do. But how easily torn, that old scar tissue. How humbling the reality that she hadn't really grown past that pain attached to the memory of John Quinn. She felt like a fool and a child, and blamed the element of surprise.
She would do better tomorrow. She would have a clear head and keep her focus. She would allow no surprises. There was no sense in dredging up the past when the present demanded all her attention. And Kate Conlan had never been anything if not sensible . . . with the exception of a few brief months during the worst year of her life.
She and Steven had grown apart. A tolerable situation, had all things remained equal. Then Emily had contracted a virulent strain of influenza, and in a matter of days their sweet, sunny child was gone. Steven had blamed Kate, feeling she should have recognized the seriousness of the illness sooner. Kate had blamed herself despite the doctors' assurances that it wasn't her fault, that she couldn't have known. She had been so in need of someone to hold her, someone to offer comfort and support and absolution. . . .
Pulling the end of the towel over her shoulder from the towel bar behind her, she dabbed at her eyes, wiped her nose, then took another drink. The past was out of her control. She could at least delude herself into believing she had some control of the present.
She steered her thoughts to her client. Idiotic word—client. It implied the person had chosen her, hired her. Angie DiMarco would have done neither. What a piece of work that kid was. And Kate was far too experienced in the ways of the real world to believe there was a heart of gold under all that. There was more likely something warped and mutated by a life less kind than that of the average stray cat. How people could bring a child into the world and let her come to this . . . The notion brought indignation and an unwelcome stab of jealousy.
It wasn't her job, really, finding out who Angie DiMarco was or why she was that sadly screwed-up person. But the more she knew about a client, the better able she was to understand that client, to act and react accordingly. To manipulate. To get what Sabin wanted out of the witness.
Draining the tub, she dried off, wrapped herself in a fat terry robe, and took the last of her drink to the small antique writing desk in her bedroom. Her feminine sanctuary. Peach tones and rich deep green gave the room a sense of warmth and welcome. Nanci Griffith's quirky sweet voice drifted from the speakers of the small stereo system on the bookshelf. Thor, the Norwegian forest cat who held dominion over the house, had claimed Kate's bed as his rightful throne and lay in all his regal, hairy splendor dead center on the down comforter. He gazed at her with the bored supremacy of a crown prince.
Kate curled a leg beneath her on the chair, pulled a sheet of paper from a cubbyhole in the desk, and began to write.
Angie DiMarco
Name? Probably phony. Belongs to some woman in Wisconsin. Get someone to run it through Wisconsin DMV.
Family dead—figuratively or literally?
Abuse? Likely. Sexual? Strong probability.
Tattoos: multiple—professional and amateur.
Significance?
Significance of individual designs?
Body piercing: fashion or something more?
Compulsive behaviors: Nail biting. Smokes.
Drinks: How much? How often?
Drugs? Possibly. Thin, pale, unkempt. But seems too
focused in behavior.
She could make only a thumbnail sketch of Angie's personality. Their time together had been too brief and too strongly influenced by the stress of the situation. Kate hated to think what conclusions some stranger would draw of her if she were thrust in a similar position. Stress triggered those old fight-or-flight instincts in everyone. But understanding didn't make the kid any more pleasant to deal with.
Luckily, the woman who ran the Phoenix House was accustomed to a wide range of bad attitudes. Residents at the house were women who had chosen or been forced down some of life's rougher roads and now wanted out.
Angie had been less than appreciative for the roof over her head. She had lashed out at Kate in a way that struck Kate as being way out of proportion.
“So what if I don't want to stay here?”
“Angie, you've got no place else to go.”
“You don't know that.”
“Don't make me go through this again,” Kate said with an impatient sigh.
Toni Urskine, director of the Phoenix, lingered in the doorway for that much of the exchange, watching with a frown. Then she left them to have it out in the otherwise deserted den, a small room with cheap paneling and cast-off furnishings. Mismatched rummage sale “art” on the walls gave the place the ambiance of a fleabag hotel.
“You have no permanent address,” Kate said. “You tell me your family is dead. You haven't managed to come up with a single real-live person who would take you in. You need a place to stay. This is a place to stay. Three squares, bed, and bath. What's the problem?”
Angie swatted at a stained throw pillow on a worn plaid love seat. “It's a fucking sty, that's the problem.”
“Oh, excuse me, you've been living at the Hilton? Your fake address wasn't in this good a house?”
“You like it so much, then you stay here.”
“I don't have to stay here. I'm not the homeless witness to a murder.”
“Well, I don't fucking want to be!” the girl cried, her eyes shining like crystal, sudden tears poised to spill down her cheeks. She turned away from Kate and jammed the heels of her hands against her eyes. Her thin body curled in on itself like a comma.
“No, no, no,” she mewed softly to herself. “Not now . . .”
The swift break in emotions caught Kate flat-footed. This was what she had wanted, wasn't it? To have the hard shell crack. Now that it had, she wasn't quite sure what to do about it. She hadn't been expecting the break to come now, over this.
Hesitantly, she stepped toward the girl, feeling awkward and guilty. “Angie . . .”
“No,” the girl whispered more to herself than to Kate. “Not now. Please, please . . .”
“You don't have to be embarrassed, Angie,” Kate said softly, standing close, though she made no attempt to touch the girl. “You've had a hell of a day. I'd cry too. I'll cry later. I'm no good at it—my nose runs, it's gross.”
“Why c-c-can't I j-j-just stay with you?”
The question came from way out in left field, hit Kate square in the temple, and stunned her to her toes. As if this girl had never been away from home. As if she had never stayed among strangers. She'd likely been living on the street for God only knew how long, doing God only knew what to survive, and suddenly this dependence. It didn't make sense.
Before Kate could respond, Angie shook her head a little, rubbed the tears from her face with the sleeve of her jacket, and sucked in a ragged breath. That fast the window of opportunity shut and the steel mask was back in place.
“Never mind. Like you fucking care what happens to me.”
“Angie, I care what happens to you or I wouldn't have this job.”
“Yeah, right. Your job.”
“Look,” Kate said, out of energy for the argument, “it beats sleeping in a box. Give it a couple of days. If you hate it here, I'll see about making some other arrangements. You've got my cell phone number: Call me if you need me or if you just need to talk. Anytime. I meant what I said—I'm on your side. I'll pick you up in the morning.”