But truth be told, she didn’t. As the gas pump numbers racked up more dollars, Jane’s worries spun even faster, imagining what would happen if she got fired again. Her father would-well, he’d probably pull out his favorite phrase, “I told you so.” Then remind her he’d have preferred her going to law school, and remind her that Lissa had followed his advice, then point out how happy her sister was now. How engaged Lissa was. All that Jane wasn’t. She’d have to sell her condo, move somewhere, find another new job. As what? And Jake-
The gas pump bell dinged. Jane jammed the hose back on the hook.
Jake was so angry last night. She had to admit she wasn’t thrilled with the nasty phone call, either, who would be? But it was the cost of doing reporter business, and she couldn’t live her life spooked every time some goon felt unhappy with her story. She promised Jake she’d be careful and made it home fine. No bad guys or boogey men. No repeat phone call. Fine, okay, she’d checked the street outside her front window a time or two. She hadn’t noticed any police cruisers-so much for “keeping an eye on her”-but who knew.
She swiped her credit card through the payment thing again with a little more drama than warranted.
Get out of town. Ridiculous. She should be basking in glory over the Brianna Tillson scoop and working on her take-out on foster care. She should be studying Hec Underhill’s photos to see if any of the Callaberry Street neighbors she’d interviewed looked like someone who would make a malevolent phone call. Or kill someone. Instead, she was embarking on a wild goose chase with Tuck. Still, if she hit pay dirt, she’d be back in control of her life.
“Got it,” Tuck said. “The GPS says it’ll take, like, two hours to get there. A straight shot west, then down eighty-four. Hang on, I’m hitting the bathroom.”
Tuck slammed the car door, heading toward a battered tin sign that said LADY’S. She glanced up at the whitening sky, then swirled an orange cashmere muffler around her neck.
Jane slid into the driver’s seat, yanking the seat belt across her parka. Jake was fuming because she hadn’t informed him instantly about the call. Alex was fuming because they had a perfectly good scoop about Brianna Tillson but couldn’t use it.
Everyone angry at Jane. Lovely.
Her story was killed, her exclusive out the window. All that cultivation of Maggie Gunnison and her serendipitous sighting of Finn Eberhardt-not to mention her frostbitten arm-twisting to weasel information from him-had resulted in absolute zero. Which is about as cold as it was at this Mobil station in the Framingham service plaza of the Mass Turnpike.
“Glass half full,” Jane muttered.
Tuck was back in her seat. “Glass of what? Full of what?”
“It’s an expression. Listen, where were you anyway, yesterday? I texted you a couple times.”
Jane turned the ignition, pulled forward, and waited for a break in the highway traffic. Cars hissed by, tires spitting sleet, some tailgating the municipal salt-spreader trucks working to keep ahead of the always-icy turnpike. Lopsided mountains of graying snow, piled shoulder-high by the public works plows, lined the access ramp. This stuff wouldn’t melt until March, maybe April. It would only get dirtier. At least there was no snow in the forecast. Around here, anyway.
“I was-” Tuck leaned forward, peering through the windshield. “Okay, you can go.”
Jane ignored her, flipped on her turn signal. It didn’t matter why Tuck hadn’t called her, she guessed. What did matter-
“Did Ella tell you she was keeping those copies of the documents?” Jane inched forward, eyes on the traffic, ready to bang the gas when there was an opening. “Sure would be good to have them, you know?”
“Nope,” Tuck said. “She told me at Dunkin’ she had to get rid of them, in case-well, I guess she wasn’t supposed to copy them. So she certainly doesn’t have them anymore. We’re screwed on that end. Go. There’s plenty of space.”
There wasn’t. Good thing Tuck wasn’t driving. “Well, wait. The Brannigan people, Ms. Finch, contacted you. Didn’t they give you copies?”
“‘The child’-that’s what they call me-‘the child’ doesn’t have access. It’s all sealed.” Tuck waved a hand at the cars whizzing by. “Sheesh. We’re never gonna-”
Jane hit the accelerator, sneaking her Audi in behind a salt-spattered red SUV filled with kids. An Irish Setter barked at her, silently, through the rear window, as the SUV pulled away. The traffic had thinned out, as always happened on the Pike. Crowded as hell for a mile, then next to nothing for reasons known only to highway engineers.
The green mile-marker signs flashed by, the concrete barriers along the side of the highway a blur of jagged cracks and mismatched plaster patches. They were on their way to find out what Carlyn Beerman could tell them. Tuck insisted the woman-who-was-not-her-mother must be key to the whole thing.
The “thing”: that Carlyn’s biological daughter was out there somewhere. As was Tuck’s real birth mother. Waiting for their long-lost family to find them.
Maybe Jane could make things right. After all, that was her job, as a reporter, to make the system work. To hold the bad guys accountable. To make happy endings.
When she was growing up, Jane’s mother had eventually gotten used to her rescuing baby birds, adopting stray animals, and marching for better food in the school cafeteria. Even back then, preteen Jane needed to find out who caused the problems and figure out how to fix them. Not your responsibility, her father would instruct her. Jane could never understand that. Then whose? she would ask. Now, being a reporter meant fixing things was her job. That he couldn’t criticize.
“We can’t get the info from the Brannigan now, that’s for sure.” Jane adjusted her rearview mirror and gooshed wiper fluid across her windshield. “I can see us, sashaying in there, asking about your birth-mother concerns in the middle of a potential murder investigation. Speaking of which. Did Ella call you with any update on Lillian Finch? Did the cops visit Ella’s?”
“Nope, she didn’t call.” Tuck rummaged in her purse. “Gum?”
“Don’t you think that’s strange?” Jane shook her head at the gum offer, eased into the fast lane, and passed the SUV. Now that the road opened up, everyone pushed the speed limit. Massachusetts drivers. But seventy seemed safe enough. No staties with radar guns lurked by the side of the highway, ready to nab her for speeding. “Ella was freaking, remember, when she left us? And now Ms. Finch, the woman who she says made the big mistake, is-”
“Dead,” Tuck said. “Yeah.”
“Remain on the current road for one hundred five miles,” the plummy GPS voice instructed.
“Yeah,” Jane said. “Not that her death has anything to do with…”
She paused, staring as the highway unspooled ahead. What if it did? What if Lillian Finch’s death was connected to Tuck?
“Hey. Tuck?” A black pickup seemed to be closing in on them. Was it? Jane watched it in the rearview. It was. Getting closer by the second, verging on tailgating, flashing its double-tall headlights at them. “I’ve got to watch the road, but check behind us, okay?”
Jane risked another look in her rearview as Tuck twisted around to peer through the back window. The truck was definitely closer. Definitely picking up speed.
“See that truck?” Jane said. “The black one? Isn’t he getting kind of close?”
35
“Did you touch anything, Mrs. Richards?” Jake knew he sounded like a TV detective, but at least those crime dramas got people to understand what was important. Law & Order as a vehicle for citizen education was pushing it, maybe, but if Dolly Richards had been savvy enough to keep her mitts off the Lexis, he and DeLuca might catch a break. This guy was dead, that was for sure. Question was, who was it? And why?