Читать книгу Agent Ren Bryce Thriller Series Books 1-3: Blood Runs Cold, Time of Death, Blood Loss - Alex Barclay - Страница 52
ОглавлениеThe next morning, Ren parked outside Caroline Quaintance’s house and sat staring down at the photo of Billy Waites and his intense, intelligent – lying? – eyes.
He could have any woman he wanted. Why did he pick me? She glanced over at the house. When maybe tall, athletic twenty-seven-year-olds were his thing.
She breathed through an irritating stab of jealousy and got out of the car. She jogged across the street to the house and rang the doorbell. Caroline came out, struggling to find an alternative expression for her disappointed face.
‘I’m Ren –’
‘I know,’ said Caroline. ‘Come in … again.’
‘Thanks. I won’t take up a lot of your time.’
‘That’s OK. I’m surprised to see you, that’s all. I feel like I’m being involved in something I just don’t know much about.’
They went into the kitchen. Ren sat down. Caroline stood looking at her.
‘I know you’re supposed to be asking the questions,’ said Caroline, ‘but are you … OK? You look –’
‘Yes. I’m fine,’ said Ren. ‘Why do you ask?’ Ren was training herself to use this question more. She’d read somewhere that it was the perfect response to a personal question that you didn’t want to answer. If someone couldn’t give you a good enough reason for asking, you could bypass revealing something you didn’t want to. My weakness.
‘Oh … I’m sorry,’ said Caroline, ‘I just …’
Result. ‘I’m here to show you a photograph, to see if you recognize this man.’
‘No,’ said Caroline immediately.
‘Never seen him before?’
‘Should I have?’
‘Well, no. But …’
‘No,’ said Caroline again. ‘Why?’
‘I’m just asking around,’ said Ren. ‘Anyone who has cropped up in the investigation.’ She stood up. ‘Thank you for your time.’
‘No problem. But I really can’t see why –’
‘Look,’ said Ren. ‘I’m doing my job, OK? It’s for me to know why I’m asking what I’m asking. And why I’m calling to your door, OK? Is it killing you to give me five minutes of your time?’ She glanced toward the television, where Desperate Housewives was playing. ‘Or are you too busy watching fake people’s lives to give a damn about a real person’s death?’
At some point, Ren realized, Caroline had taken a step back from her.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Ren. ‘I just …’ Stop talking.
‘Really, I do wish I could help,’ said Caroline, but I just don’t know that guy.’
At least you’re not lying this time. I think.
A text came in from Vincent when she got back to her office. She checked the time and sent him back a Yes. She drove down to Main Street and parked outside the Crown. She had been having more success with parking in Breckenridge than Bob had led her to believe.
The Crown was quiet inside, a few couples, a few readers, no one playing board games. Vincent was sitting on the sofa facing her. He stood up, smiling.
‘Hey,’ he said. They kissed on the cheek.
‘Hi,’ said Ren. She took off her jacket and hung it on the coat stand beside them. ‘It’s cold out there.’
‘Tonight’s going to be worse,’ said Vincent. ‘Fifteen below.’
‘Ugh.’
‘Do you have to be anywhere?’
‘Inside working, so it could be worse.’
‘Crank that heating up.’
‘Wow,’ said Ren – the waitress arrived with two coffees and a Cinnamonster.
Ren gave him a warm, sad smile. ‘Thank you.’ She stared at him a little too long.
‘What?’ he said.
‘It’s just … it’s lovely to be known that well. You knew I’d be on time, so you could order. And you knew what to order …’
‘Noo,’ said Vincent. ‘I just thought it was appropriate ordering you something with “monster” in the title …’
Ren laughed. ‘Is that better or worse than Ren Noir?’
‘Better.’
They sat in silence for a while, then they talked about work.
‘You are the only person in the world I can be totally honest with,’ said Ren.
‘And you are the only person in the world who I can tell straightaway is lying to me.’
Ren frowned.
‘Yes, Ren, you are honest. Most of what you say to me is the truth. But you are selective in what you say to me.’
Ren opened her mouth and closed it again without speaking.
‘When you have looked me in the eye today, it’s been nervously,’ said Vincent. ‘But most of the time, you haven’t been able to.’
‘That’s not true,’ said Ren.
‘Bing! Lie!’ His tone was not unkind.
‘Look, stop,’ said Ren. ‘Come on.’
‘Something is making you uncomfortable with me,’ said Vincent, ‘and because I know that you can’t lie – really – I’m not going to ask you what it is. Because I’m not really sure I want to know.’
Ren looked down. Ugh. ‘I am a loser.’
‘Well, I just hope you’re a loser who is not doing too much damage to herself.’
Oh, you have no idea.
Ren turned on one light in her suite that night when she got back to the inn. Everyone was flooding her brain without really telling her anything. Checking Billy’s phone had resolved nothing. And he could have a hundred other phones. Yet there was something about him she inherently trusted. But can I trust my trust?
Later she lay in the dark, filled with hope for the morning. Hope that didn’t last. Fear started to dissolve it, like the black, liquid edges of burning plastic. And as she drifted into a world where the worst possible outcomes lived, her mind took her deeper again … and the dream came back. This time, it ended with locked door after locked door. This time she didn’t make it out alive.
She woke howling, desperately trying to catch her breath. She dragged herself upright to the edge of the bed. Her head felt ice cold inside. She held a hand over her mouth and ran for the bathroom. She retched, but nothing came up. Her face was red, her eyes streamed. And her heart rate was soaring. She brushed her teeth and put a freezing cloth to her face before she went back to bed. She took her purse with her, shook everything out, couldn’t find anything she could take to calm her down. Which made her worse.
I need to sleep. I cannot do this. I cannot do this. I cannot do this alone.
She looked at the clock. It was 1.30 a.m. He would be finishing up about now, he could be here in thirty minutes. She reached for her phone and dialed Billy Waites.
