Look Again - Lisa Scottoline [40]
“What are you thinking?” Cheryl asked.
“That if Amy was seeing this man around then, he could be Will’s father.”
“He’s so her type. Amy went for bad boys.”
Ellen eyed the man, who wasn’t bad-looking for a bad boy, with narrow eyes and long brown ponytail. Something about him looked almost familiar, but maybe it was that he looked a little like Will. He had the smile, a little tilted down, but it looked like a smirk on him. The photo was too blurry to see more detail and it had been taken from a distance. “In the email, did Amy say who he was, or where they were?”
“No.”
Ellen mulled it over. “It could be anywhere it’s warm, which could be anywhere, in June. What did she say in the email, if I can ask?”
“Nothing. She just sent the photo. Nice, huh?” Cheryl scoffed again, but Ellen’s gaze remained on the photo. She could be looking at Will’s birth parents. Charles Cartmell, if it was him, had a sleeve of multicolored tattoos she couldn’t read and he looked a little drunk, even in the fuzzy resolution.
“The focus is so bad on this.”
“It could be my printer. Keep that copy and I’ll email you another, if you want.”
“Please, do.” Ellen told Cheryl her email address. “Did Amy have any girlfriends?”
“She never got along with other girls. She hung with the guys.”
Ellen made a mental note. “You said Amy emails you. Did she ever mention any men in her emails?”
“Not that I remember.”
“Would you mind looking back at the emails, so we can check?”
“I can’t, I deleted them.” Cheryl checked her watch. “Well, it’s getting kind of late.”
“Sure, I should go.” Ellen rose with her papers, hiding her frustration. “Thanks so much for meeting with me. Think she’ll email me?”
“God knows.”
Ellen said her good-byes and left, wondering if it was really Charles Cartmell in the photo. She hit the cold air outside and looked up at the sky, dark and starless.
Maybe it wasn’t too late to take a drive.
Chapter Thirty-one
Ellen sat in her car with the engine off, watching the snow fall in the dark, holding the court papers. She was parked outside of an elementary school, a three-story redbrick edifice that had been there since 1979, according to its keystone. The school was at Charles Cartmell’s address, but obviously, he didn’t live here. He had never lived here. Amy must have pulled the address out of thin air and made up the name, too. She might as well have picked Count Chocula.
Ellen wasn’t completely surprised. She had known that Grant Avenue was one of the busiest streets in the Northeast, in a commercial area, but she had been hoping that there would be an apartment house or maybe a converted row house.
Cars rushed past her, their windshield wipers pumping and their red brake lights burning holes into the night. She looked again at the photo of Amy and the man on the beach. The streetlight cast an oblong of purplish light across his face, but his eyes remained in shadow.
“Who is my son?” she asked the silence.
Chapter Thirty-two
“Thanks so much for staying, Con.” Ellen closed the front door behind her, feeling a wave of guilt. It was after eleven o’clock, and on TV, a bow-tied weatherman was sticking a yardstick into three inches of snow. “I really do appreciate it.”
“S’okay.” Connie rose tiredly from the couch, her Sudoku book in hand. “Everything go okay at your meeting?”
“Yes, thanks.” Ellen got Connie’s coat from the closet and handed it to her. “How’s my baby boy?”
“Fine.” Connie slipped into her coat. “But it was Crazy Shirt Day at school, and you forgot his shirt. I reminded you, last week. I thought it was in his backpack and just went.”
“Oh no.” Ellen felt another wave of guilt, which made two in two minutes, a record even for her. “Was he upset?”
“He’s three, El.”
“I should have remembered.