“No one.” He stood, smiling. Obviously couldn’t tell her the answer was reporters.
“Cheese,” she said. “And wine. I’m still on the phone. Two seconds, okay?”
And she was gone.
At least it put off the inevitable. D was home, packing. To add to the impending shitstorm, DeLuca would be gone for the next week. His partner, higher seniority, got to take his vacation as planned. Jake picked up the wine bottle, poured a glass, then stabbed a cracker shard into the melting brie, scooping up a chunk and crunching it down.
He toasted the universe, shaking his head. “Happy days,” he said.
Jane kept her voice low, needing to hurry, not wanting Jake to hear her. She edged away from the open door. Put her head down and clamped the phone to her ear.
“So it was Detective Brogan at your sister-in-law’s? And his partner. Okay. But you’re saying they were only asking questions. Didn’t charge you with anything. Correct? So how did they leave it?”
She nodded as she listened, even though Elliot Sandoval couldn’t see her. She heard the frustration in his voice, the worry. She’d been right, that’s where Jake had been, and that made sense, since the Waverly Road house once belonged to the Sandovals. Now she was intrigued by what Sandoval was asking.
“Your lawyer?” Jane replied. “Well, sure. Happy to chat with him. Her. Tomorrow?”
She wanted to focus on this, but it was a challenge with Jake right in the other room. Jake.
“Mr. Sandoval? Did you mention to either of the detectives that you had told me they were coming to your sister-in-law’s house?” Jane asked. This was getting complicated. Was getting? Had gotten. “No? Lets leave it that way, okay? It’s best if this is just between us.” Jane tucked the phone under her chin, dug in the kitchen junk drawer for a pencil and paper.
“And what’s your lawyer’s name?” She was incredibly curious-how had the penniless, foreclosed victim Sandoval afforded a lawyer? He hadn’t been charged, he’d said. So a public defender couldn’t have been appointed.
She had one more thing to tell him. And she hoped she was right.
“Mr. Sandoval?” She paused, considering, then went on. “Don’t worry, okay? I’m sure everything will be fine.”
She clicked off, wondering if that was true. As a reporter, it didn’t matter, really, how Mr. Sandoval felt. It didn’t even matter whether he was a murderer. All that mattered was the truth.
17
Aaron watched Lizzie try to re-zip the back of her dress.
“I mean, we shouldn’t be doing this,” she was saying. “We shouldn’t.”
The minute he’d come up here, seen the fluffy white comforter, and the puffy pillow, all as if they were just waiting for someone to come back to bed, he’d stood, looking at it, his mind going a hundred miles an hour. Three beers-was it four?-maybe that was it.
He teased her up the stairs, promised a “surprise.” Now, after fifteen minutes of whatever, was she pretending to be reluctant?
Lizzie perched on the edge of the bed, sitting up, her hair wild and her cheeks flushed. It was so quiet he could hear the hum of the electricity, hear her trying to catch her breath, hear the zipper release again as he leaned closer, his mouth at her ear.
“Shouldn’t? There’s no ‘shouldn’t.’ It’s our house, Lizzie,” he breathed. “We’re here, alone, just us. Let go a little. Life isn’t all numbers and spreadsheets… Sometimes, it’s-” He pulled at her zipper again, pulled down. “Sometimes it’s just-sheets.”
He waited.
Lizzie burst out laughing. Laughing? She’d flopped back onto the rumpled comforter, then instantly sat up again.
“Sheets? Aaron Gianelli, you have lost your-” She was shaking her head, making fun of him? Not at all the reaction he was going for. “You are too much.”
She stood, lifting her arms to zip her dress, and succeeded, laughing the whole time.
He stayed on the bed, frowning at her. Watching her struggle with that dumb gray dress.
“Just trying to inject a little humor,” he said.
She was looking right at him now, still kind of laughing. Tossed her hair, as if she was in charge, and then fiddled with the back of her dress, twisting the fabric into place around her hips.
“Oh, you certainly did that. For a minute, I was even-” She stopped. Gestured at the room. “I don’t know, Aaron, it’s crazy, and I was trying to, as you suggested, let myself go for once. But this is-”
Lizzie cleared her throat, trying to get her bearings. She fumbled for the little hook and eye at the top of her zipper, managed to get that fastened again. Found her shoes, wiggled into them, one bare foot at a time. She could not believe, simply could not, that she’d let herself be lured up here by this guy.
Wine or not, messing around with a fellow employee on the abandoned bed of a foreclosed home was not romantic. Or sexy.
Or was it? She looked at him, so handsome, and a funny look on his face, like he was concerned she wouldn’t like him.
Maybe she was being too picky.
She tried to recalculate, reset the equation. What if this was-an adventure? An exciting adventure. There weren’t that many good men left, her girlfriends kept telling her. Aaron had his pluses, as well as his minuses. So did everyone, right? And it wasn’t like she had any other offers. She felt her apprehensions about Aaron beginning to dissolve, but even so. This didn’t feel like the proper place. That wasn’t being “picky.” “It’s not you. It only-this is someone’s home, you know?”
“It isn’t ‘someone’s home.’” Aaron sat on the edge of the bed, hadn’t quite buttoned his shirt. “This house belongs to the bank. I’m in charge of it. If it’s anyone’s, its mine. And anyway, Lizzie, this is all your fault.”
He smiled at her, that smile she still couldn’t ignore. The way he’d looked at her outside the vault that day, and Sunday night, and on the stairs fifteen minutes ago.
“My fault?”
“I couldn’t resist you,” he murmured. He stood, drawing her closer, his arm sliding around her waist. “It wouldn’t have mattered where we were. Can you forgive me for that? Can we start again? Try again?”
She felt the last of her resolve melt away, from the heat of the gathering darkness, and the desire in his voice, from his embrace, and her need for-whatever it was she needed. A partner. A future. Her one plus one.
“Stay,” Aaron whispered. “Just a little bit longer…”
Lizzie couldn’t help it. She burst out laughing again. Now he was singing?
“You. Are. Kidding me.” Jane tried to process what she was hearing. She took Jake’s hand, unwrapped his arm from around her shoulders, stood up from the couch. Counted toward ten, silently, not looking at him. Turned around when she got to about four.
“But you could be back in Boston in plenty of time.” He could, she knew he could. “What if talking with this-what’s his name? Only takes a day? Or two?”
“Frasca. Dr. Nathaniel Frasca. I’ve got to go to D.C., that’s the only way I can look at the files. They’re on paper, originals, even sealed court documents. It could take a while, there’s simply no way to predict. Plus, we need to talk in person, and he’s about to go out of town, and it’s-I’m sorry, honey.” Jake stood, too, tried to put his arm back around her.
She didn’t want him to. Shook him off, stepped away.
“How long can it take for you guys to discuss false confessions? Why can’t you do it on the phone? Or by e-mail? Don’t you have to be here this week to handle the Waverly-” She stopped, hearing the whine in her voice. This was Jake’s job, he had no choice, he’d gotten a chain-of-command assignment, there was a murder involved, and she’d be doing exactly the same thing if their positions were reversed. It wasn’t about her. Sometimes life didn’t work out the way you hoped.