Chapter Seventeen SCARLETT

Chapter Seventeen

S CARLETT

Sunday, July 14, 2024

6:00 p.m.

Date night: part two.

I’d walked around the block a couple of times. There had been no more Della sightings, and I was beginning to wonder if my obsession with her painting was now playing tricks on my brain.

I entered Ben’s, the small Italian-style eatery, taking in the white tablecloths, intimate tables, and long mahogany bar backed by hundreds of glistening liquor bottles. The servers wore dark pants, white shirts, and neat green aprons. I saw three marked exits. Luke, to his credit, wasn’t taking a shortcut tonight.

A young hostess greeted me with a smile. “May I help you?”

“I’m meeting someone. Luke Kane.”

The hostess glanced at an iPad. “Yes, he’s here. Let me take you to his table.”

I was a couple of minutes early, but he was already here. I couldn’t decide whether this was a good thing. He didn’t strike me as the anxious or eager type.

When I saw him, he was sitting with his back to the wall and reading something on his phone. Dressed in a blue button-down rolled up to his elbows, he wasn’t wearing a tie. A tuft of dark hair peeked out from the V created by the few unfastened buttons.

As the hostess and I approached, he looked up, our gazes locked, and he turned his phone face down and rose. He smiled but didn’t move around the table. Instead, he allowed the hostess to pull out my chair. I’d bet he’d done his internet search.

“You look amazing,” he said.

I’d been working nonstop after I left the Judge’s house and, when I’d realized the time, had showered quickly and scrubbed hard to remove the paints from my hands and arms. I left my hair loose around my shoulders and now it curled softly. The dress was a simple sapphire sheath, the crystal necklace a find at an art show, and the gladiator sandals a go-to. “Thank you.”

He waited for me to sit before he retook his place. A bourbon neat sat in front of him, and there was a white wine at my place setting. “You drank white wine last time.”

A detail man. Good memory. Also, quick, efficient, and ready for this date to end sooner rather than later. “That’s perfect.”

He didn’t appear in a rush as he sipped his bourbon. “How was your day?”

My back was to the front door. Not ideal, but at least I wouldn’t have any Della sightings staring at Luke and the framed picture behind him.

I glanced at the glass of wine he’d ordered me. I never took open beverages from strangers. But I was tired of always being on guard, always afraid. I took a sip of wine, savoring the soothing, buttery smoothness. “I’m making a series of prints. Each of these prints will require a total of five colors. Today I applied the first color.” I glanced at my hands and the faintest flecks of blue. I waggled my fingers. “Blue.”

“Let me guess. It features the waterfront.”

Norfolk was surrounded by water, so the guess was logical. “It does. It’s a popular design with tourists, and I get a lot of visitor foot traffic at the art fairs. They’ll sell well.”

“A marketing decision.”

“In part. It’s a little abstract, but any artist who wants to eat on a regular basis needs to keep her eye to what sells.”

He sat back, and I sensed he was methodically ticking through the small talk until he could breach the bigger questions on his mind.

I sipped my wine. “You looked me up.”

“I did.” He swirled the caramel liquid in his glass. “Quite the story.”

He was a hard one to read, and that was unsettling. Della had taught me to dissect facial expressions down to the micro level. A slight frown, a heavy sigh, a hardening of a gaze could all make the difference between living or dying.

I drew in a slow, steady breath, rummaging for the forgiveness the psychologists preached. “Any questions?”

Sharp hawk eyes peered over his glass. “Why did you run the other night? Was it something I said or did?”

How could I explain that desperation had captured me in an iron muscled grip, making refusal impossible. “I saw a woman. She reminded me of Della, the other girl locked up with me.”

“Della was never found, according to the articles. The cops concluded that she wasn’t real.”

“Lately, I’ve had my own doubts. But when I block out all the noise, I know she was real. I don’t know how she got away or what happened to her. But I thought I saw her that night. Likely, I was wrong. I’ve been mistaken a lot over the years when it comes to Della sightings.” Could a measured tone make crazy words sound a little less insane?

“Did you find the woman you saw?”

“I did not. I lost whoever it was I was chasing.” I drew in a slow, steady sigh, determined to keep calm and not cling to my frustration.

“I’m sorry for what happened to you,” he said. “That kind of trauma would leave a mark on anyone.”

“I do have a few quirks.”

“Such as?”

“I spend a lot of time alone. I’m obsessed with exercise and fitness so I’m always capable of running if necessary.” Did I want to tell him there’d been no man before or since Tanner? No. TMI. Dawson’s visit regarding Sandra Taylor’s death and Tiffany’s disappearance might also be a bridge too far. “I rarely date. Lots of locks on my door.”

“Are you in counseling?”

“I have been many times. It helped, but when it’s all said and done, I had to find a way to live with it all.”

“You look like you’re winning.”

I tipped my glass toward him. “Except for the occasional freak-out.”

That prompted a slight smile. “I’ve had dates that ended worse.”

I frowned. “Why would you even bother with me? You’re a good-looking guy and seem to have your act together.”

“I was a prosecutor, and now I’m a defense lawyer. I’m used to looking at the other side of an equation, the side no one else wants to see.”

“Justified motivations lurking under the bad actions.”

“Something like that.”

Tanner does this because he cares so much about you. Della’s words rattled. “But sometimes good motivations can be twisted. They don’t always excuse the actions.”

“Is that how you felt about Tanner Reed?”

Hearing Tanner’s name was jarring. First Dawson and now Luke. Twice this week.

“Does my directness bother you?” Luke asked.

“It’s unexpected. Few ask about him anymore.”

“If you’d rather not . . .”

The trailing comment belied the intensity in his gaze. “Most of my recollections of Tanner are tangled with my memories of Della. It’s as if they became one. His words became hers. She kept telling me he was saving me from my mother, who had substance abuse issues. Della often explained and justified what he did to me. She encouraged me to be nice to him.”

“How did Tanner know about your mother?”

“Tanner was a carpenter working on a renovation project across the street from my mother’s house. He was nice to me. Charming. He showed interest in my art. It felt good to be noticed. And after he took me, he apparently spoke to my mother often.”

Luke nodded. “He liked having a secret and seeing her distress.”

“That’s the thing: she wasn’t distressed. The drugs threw off her sense of time.”

“How old were you?”

“Fifteen.”

“A child.”

“Ironically, I thought dealing with my mother’s addiction had made me worldly and careful. I thought I had it all under control. But Mom’s disinterest made me incredibly vulnerable. Looking for love in all the wrong places kind of thing.”

Luke nodded slowly. In the prosecutor’s office, he’d likely seen his share of groomers. I didn’t need to fill in the gaps for him to see a bigger picture.

“He was nice to me at first, and he got me talking, I guess so I’d become more relaxed around him. I looked forward to seeing his truck. I told him about my dreams of being an artist, and he encouraged me. It was nice to have someone care. Or seem to, anyway.” I had accepted that only raw curiosity was keeping Luke in the chair. I understood when the questions were satisfied, he’d pay the tab, wish me my best life, and leave. There was something freeing about not feeling as if I had to try to be normal.

“Why did you get in his van?”

“Della,” I said. “Della, the one no one believes existed, coaxed me to the van. I was selling my art on a street corner, and she convinced me to follow her. The rest is available in the interviews I gave to the cops.”

“You were very detached in those interviews.”

“You pulled up my interviews? They aren’t available on the internet.”

A slight lift and fall of his shoulder. “I know people.”

“Detective Dawson?”

He frowned. “I wouldn’t reach out to him, but there are others.”

“I suppose that makes sense.” I sipped my wine. “Detached is how I survived—survive. Some survivors get caught in loops of fear, some race toward trouble with a death wish, keep dating abusers praying for reform. Some scream and yell. And some slide behind a wall of ice and keep the pain at arm’s distance.”

“You’re the latter.”

I tapped the tip of my nose.

“Doesn’t that get lonely?”

“Maybe. Sometimes. Lonely might not always be fun, but it’s safe.”

“Why are you here?” he asked. “Why swing by my office?”

“Like I said, I owed you an apology.”

“Do you always apologize to the dates you ditch?”

This candor was oddly relaxing, and yet I was very aware that he’d made a career of drawing out the truth. “No. You’re the first. But there haven’t been that many dates. The record for my longest date is sixty-two minutes.”

“We didn’t break that record.”

“No.” I slid my finger through the condensation on the side of my glass. “How are we doing for time now?”

He checked his watch. “Thirty-one minutes if we count the moment when you entered the restaurant.”

“I didn’t think you noticed when I arrived.”

“I noticed.”

A warmth spread through me. Exciting to really be seen, but also unsettling.

“What’s special about me?” he asked. “Why do I win an apology?”

“Maybe I’m tired of ...” I couldn’t find the word.

“Your loneliness?”

“I’m not sure.”

The waiter appeared with menus. “Would you like to order dinner?”

Luke looked at me. “What do you think?”

“Dinner would be nice.” We each accepted menus.

When we were alone, Luke raised his glass and said, “Here’s to breaking the sixty-two-minute record.”