Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 76717 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76717 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
“Dr. Lansing,” he rasps out, wincing slightly as if the effort to speak is too much for him. “What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” I respond coolly, crossing my arms.
“What can I say? I love the food here.”
I roll my eyes.
He glares at me. “Take a look. Why the fuck do you think I’m here?”
I pull up a chair and sit beside his bed. “Why’d you do it?” My voice is steady and controlled, as cold as the stainless-steel fixtures in the room.
“Do what?” he asks.
His feigned innocence makes me want to finish the job someone started.
“Threaten Angie?” I grit out. “We both know you’re the one who emailed HR.”
Ralph swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. He tries to speak but only coughs, the sound echoing harshly in the room.
“I didn’t,” he croaks after a moment.
“Save your lies for someone who gives a damn,” I snap, leaning forward so my face is inches from his. “You hurt Angie, and you’re going to pay for it.”
Ralph’s eyes widen, a flicker of raw terror flashing across them. He starts to shake his head, attempting denial yet again. But I’m not here for lies or excuses.
I stand, my chair scraping against the cold linoleum floor. The sound reverberates through the room.
“You know what’s funny, Ralph? I’ve never been a violent man. But for you, I find myself considering becoming one.”
His lips part as if he wants to say something, but nothing comes out. The fear in his eyes is palpable now, and I can’t help but feel a small measure of satisfaction.
“But,” I continue, “for Angie’s sake, I won’t stoop to your level.”
My fists are clenched at my sides, knuckles white with the effort of control. But Angie wouldn’t want this, wouldn’t want me to become a monster like him. She already doubts me, and I won’t give her further reason to.
Someone kicked the shit out of Ralph, but it wasn’t me.
I’d like to find out who it was, though, and take him out to dinner.
Ralph finally looks at me. Opens his mouth.
“What?” I say.
“You never fucking deserved her.”
Never deserved Angie? He may be right about that. But I sure as hell deserve her more than he does.
“Fuck you,” I reply, and I leave the room.
I’m staring at Lindsay’s yearbook, at the picture of Rebecca Tate.
Is she R. Lyon? Or is this a false lead?
Only one way to find out.
I walk over to my computer, open up Facebook. Search her name.
Lots of people come up. Rebecca Tate is a pretty common name, turns out.
I click on a few profiles, seeing if any of them grew up in Jersey, went to the same high school as Lindsay.
No dice.
I check Instagram. X. Fucking Pinterest.
Rebecca Tate appears to not have any accounts on any social media sites.
Good for her. But not good for me.
I go to Google, type in her name along with the words New Jersey.
Again, several names come up on those people-finding websites. I click and scan the first few pages of results. A lot of Rebecca Tates around Lindsay’s age live in New Jersey, and it’s not like I can get on a plane and go knocking on doors asking if they’re the one I’m looking for.
But then I remember something Lindsay’s dad mentioned at dinner at his house.
I pull out my cell and call him.
“Jason. Everything okay? Lis and I were just about to go to bed.”
I look at my watch. Shit. It’s nearly ten p.m.
“Sorry, I realize it’s late. I just… You mentioned hiring a PI after Lindsay passed away.”
“Yeah, what about him?”
I close my eyes, take a deep breath. “Can you give me his number?”
Chapter Seventeen
Angie
I beat my brother to the restaurant.
“Do you have a reservation?” the hostess asks.
“Uh…I don’t actually know. Maybe. Henry Simpson? He’s my brother.”
She taps on her computer. “Yes, here it is. For two. I take it Mr. Simpson isn’t here yet?”
I look around the entryway. “Apparently not.”
“Let me show you to your table.”
I follow the hostess through the Italian restaurant. I feel like I’m back in 1960, with the checkered tablecloths, Chianti bottles doubling as candle holders, and the soft crooning of Sinatra’s classics. I inhale the robust scent of roasted tomatoes and garlic.
I’m seated near the window. The view outside is mostly blocked by flamboyant flowerpots, but I don’t mind. My focus is inward tonight anyway.
The hostess flutters away, leaving me alone with my thoughts. My mind keeps circling back to that question.
Who hurt Ralph? He’s a dick, and I don’t really care that he’s had the shit kicked out of him, but it could all come back to bite me in the ass. Well…not me so much as Jason.
Jason. His name sends a jolt down my spine. Worry gnaws at me. Could he have been the one who hurt Ralph? It’s hard to believe, given his gratitude toward the cadavers in anatomy lab, how he insisted that we treat them with respect for the gift they’ve given us. He’s a physician. A healer.