Look Again - Lisa Scottoline [115]
Last night after she’d finished her piece, she’d fallen back to only a restless sleep and felt raw and nervous inside. A morning shower had helped, and she’d changed her top, slipping into an old gray sweater of Marcelo’s. Her hair was still wet, falling loose to her shoulders, and she didn’t bother with any makeup. She took it as a measure of confidence in her new relationship, and she didn’t want to see her own face in the mirror, anyway.
“I should call my father,” Ellen said, mentally switching topics.
“Your phone’s in your purse. I charged it for you.”
“Thanks. I feel bad that I didn’t call Connie, either. She’s probably at a football game today. She loves Penn State.”
“She called you, and I spoke to her. She’s meeting us at your house. I hope that’s okay with you. She thought it would be.”
“It is, sure.” Ellen felt her heart gladden. “How is she? Is she okay?”
“She’s very upset, but I think it will do you good to see her.” Marcelo swung the car onto her street, and Ellen swallowed hard as she looked at her house. Newsvans parked in every available space, with microwave towers that pierced the blue sky. Reporters with videocameras mobbed her sidewalk.
Ellen said, “I hate the press.”
“Me, too.” Marcelo’s gaze shifted to her, worried. “Would you like me to go around the block, one time?”
“No, let’s do it.” Ellen pulled her coat closer around her.
“Looks like national, too, and TV.” Marcelo craned his neck, slowing the car as they neared the house. “I’ll let you read Sal’s piece before we file.”
“You filing this afternoon, by two?”
“It can wait. I’ll email it to you.”
“Thanks.” Ellen knew he was pushing the deadline for her. “Are you coming in?”
“If you would like. I’m happy to meet Connie.”
“Come in and meet her, then I think I’ll be okay.” They approached the house, and to Ellen’s surprise, her neighbor Mrs. Knox was out front, ignoring the reporters and shoveling her walk for her. The sight gave her a sudden pang, of guilt and gratitude. Maybe she wasn’t such a busybody, after all.
“Here we go.” Marcelo pulled up, double-parked, and hit the emergency lights. “We’ll have to do this fast.”
“Okay.” Ellen grabbed her purse, and they both opened the doors and jumped out. She hustled around the front of the car, almost slipping on the snow, and Marcelo took her arm and they hurried together to her front walk. The reporters surged toward them almost as one, brandishing microphones, aiming videocameras, and shouting questions.
“Ellen, when did you know he was Timothy Braverman?” “Ellen, were you gonna give him back?” “Marcelo!” “Hey, El, how did the FBI find out who your son was?” “Ellen, aren’t you gonna make a statement? Marcelo, give us a break! You’re one of us!”
Ellen hurried up her walk with Marcelo right behind her, keeping the press at bay. She hustled to the porch steps, spraying snow, and crossed to the front door, which Connie opened for her.
“Connie!” she cried, more in anguish than in greeting, and the women fell into each other’s arms.
Chapter Eighty-seven
After Marcelo had gone home, Ellen sat with Connie in the living room, telling her everything while they shared a box of tissues, and they cried all over again when they came to the same awful conclusion, that Will was gone from both their lives.
“I can’t believe this happened.” Connie mopped up her eyes with a Kleenex, her voice raspy. “It’s unreal.”
“I know.” Ellen kept stroking Oreo Figaro, who sat in a silky ball on her lap.
“I hope you don’t mind, but I got here early and I went up to his room. I looked around at all the stuff, all his toys, all his books.” Connie sighed, her chest heaving in her sweatshirt. “I put his books away, force of habit, and I closed his door. I didn’t think you’d want to go in. Is that okay?”
“It’s all okay. Anything you do is okay.”
Connie smiled sadly, her ponytail on her shoulder. “I should’ve read to him more. I didn’t read to him enough.”
“You read to him plenty.”
“You