False Mermaid

Nora hesitated. “Two notes? That doesn’t make sense. Unless Tríona and the person who wore the sweatshirt both got one—”

“Which could mean a third party?”

“Maybe. Let’s see what the DNA results say. What about the murder case from Maine? And that anonymous letter addressed to Peter—what do you suppose he could have done to be threatened like that? I can’t figure out a connection.”

“I’ve got a call in to the Maine State Police. If I hear anything, I’ll keep you posted.” He felt the stabbing pain in his stomach again, and doubled over, hoping he hadn’t made any audible noise. But Nora must have heard something.

“Are you sure you’re all right, Frank? When I couldn’t reach you, I started to worry. You’d tell me, wouldn’t you, if there was something wrong?”

He cut her off. “My brother was sick.”

“Is he all right, Frank?”

He didn’t answer her immediately, but there was no way to avoid it now. “No, he’s not all right, Nora. He died.”

“Oh, Frank, I’m so sorry—”

“You didn’t know.” He didn’t expect her to understand. How could she? He’d never told her anything about his family. And now the subject was closed.

“I know all about your crash, Nora. About the bottle jamming the brake pedal. There were no prints on it but yours. But the crime scene investigators did find fingerprints on the car, above the driver’s side window—”

Nora was silent for a moment. “That could have been the security guard.”

“What security guard?”

“I went to the Cambodian place on University, and followed Seng Sotharith to where he lives in Frogtown, to see if I could talk to him. Some neighborhood hooligans were trying to spook me. A guy in a security uniform happened to be there, and he chased them off. He was driving a pickup—I didn’t get a license number, but the patch on his shirt said ‘Centurion.’ The prints are probably his—Peter wouldn’t be careless enough to leave prints, you know that.”

“He tried to kill you, Nora. You know it, and I know it. If he finds out where you are, that you’ve got Elizabeth, he’ll come after you again. He’s not going to give up—”

“He won’t find us. We’re safe here.”

Was it something in her voice? Frank suddenly knew where she was. With him—Mr. Serious. He felt gripped by a twisting jealousy. “Just tell me one thing. This friend of yours over there—he’s not a cop, is he?”

Her voice was quiet. “Frank, please don’t do this. I care about you. You were the one person who stuck with me through everything, who kept me from going under—the only one. But I wasn’t thinking straight that night we were together—I wasn’t thinking at all, to tell the truth. I don’t want to lose everything we had because of one reckless night.”

It was clear that she would never remember that night in the same way he had. Not ever. He couldn’t think how to respond.

“Frank, say something. Please.”

But there was nothing more to say. He pulled the phone from his ear and pressed the button to hang up.

Cormac had followed the sound of Nora’s voice to the kitchen. It was late—almost one in the morning—but he could have sworn she was speaking to someone. As he approached, he heard a bit of her end of the conversation: I don’t want to lose everything we had because of one reckless night.A pause. Frank, say something. Please.

He stood at the door, conflicted about whether to knock or to hold back, not wanting to make it so obvious that he’d overheard. There were clearly some things she was not telling him. How easily the seeds of doubt and jealousy were planted. He hesitated a moment longer and pushed through the kitchen door.

“You’re up, too?” She gestured to the phone lying on the table. “I was just talking to Frank Cordova.”

“Any news?”

“Everything comes in such small increments. We may have found Tríona’s cell phone, which could help pinpoint the crime scene. They also have a bloodstained sweatshirt from Peter’s college—they have to run DNA tests to see if the blood could be Tríona’s.”

“Well, that would be something, wouldn’t it? I mean, all this time you’ve been looking for evidence—”

“Yes, but there’s something not quite right about it. They don’t know for sure that it’s Peter’s sweatshirt, and I just don’t believe he would be that careless—about anything. He plans things, figures out every angle. Making a stupid mistake like that—it isn’t like him. Trust me, I know from experience how he manages every last detail. I haven’t told you the half of it.”

“Will you tell me now?” He pointed to the bandage on her forehead. “I’d especially like to know how you got that.”

“Only if you promise not to lecture me.” He held up his hand as if to swear, and she continued: “My car went off the road. I think someone jammed a water bottle under the brake pedal—”

He couldn’t help reacting. “Jesus Christ, Nora.”