Playing Dead_ A Novel of Suspense - Allison Brennan [47]
She was no longer a scared high school freshman who’d had her entire life blown up. She’d be thirty this year, she had a career, she was smart. She should be able to look at the evidence on her own, dispassionately, to see if maybe there was something—anything—missed the first time around.
What did Oliver see that no one else saw? Where did the Western Innocence Project fit in? Or Professor Collier?
Tomorrow, she’d catch up with Collier in his office bright and early. She didn’t think she’d learn anything by hitting Oliver’s house—the police would have gone through it after the missing person report was filed. But she’d go by, see if something stuck out to her. Talk to Tammy again, ask more questions about Oliver’s thesis and whom he had spoken to. Though she said she hadn’t known any details, Tammy probably knew more than she thought. It was all about asking the right questions. Then Claire would head into the Rogan-Caruso offices and use their vast computer resources to search for more information. Investigation was legwork and questions. And more legwork and more questions until the truth emerged. That she could do. She felt better having a game plan.
In the bar’s parking lot, she turned off the ignition. She wished she had canceled her date with Mitch. Not because she didn’t want to see him—on the contrary, she’d been looking forward to it all day—but because she was so twisted inside that she knew Mitch would ask her what was wrong. He was unusually perceptive, and while she appreciated his attentiveness in conversation, she didn’t like being the brunt of anyone’s scrutiny.
Still, she needed to unwind. She couldn’t do anything more about Oliver Maddox tonight. A pint of stout, a little dancing, and Mitch. It sounded like just what she needed.
It was a quarter to nine when she opened the door of the pub. She saw Charlie and the Finnegan’s Wake band setting up and was about to say hi when she saw Mitch.
He sat at a table near the back, looking tense, while another man loomed over him, hands on the table.
Claire recognized the bastard harassing Mitch. FBI Special Agent Steve Donovan. He’d come by several times since the earthquake to threaten her about her father. As if she would harbor a fugitive, especially after what her father had done.
What are you doing now, Claire? You’re keeping your mouth shut about seeing him, aren’t you?
Donovan had also harassed Charlie and the band and even talked to her boss at Rogan-Caruso, further embarrassing and enraging her.
Had he been following her? Did he know about her relationship with Mitch?
She stomped over to them, insinuated herself between the cop and the writer. She pushed Donovan in the chest. “Didn’t I tell you after you harassed my friends”—she jerked a thumb toward the band—“to leave me and mine alone? I told you I’d call if I heard from my father.”
Donovan glanced at Mitch, then said, “I’m just following up, Ms. O’Brien. I told you I’d be checking in periodically.”
“Just go away.” She blinked back what she feared were tears. She didn’t want to tell Mitch about her father, but now she had no choice. What must he think of her keeping such a big secret? Not that she’d done it on purpose, it wasn’t typical conversation to open with, “Hey, my father is an escaped killer, wanna go dancing?”
“I’m leaving,” Donovan said. He nodded to Mitch, then left.
Claire turned and looked Mitch in the eye. “I’m sorry about that.”
“It’s okay.”
She slapped her hand on the table. “It’s not okay. I don’t like talking about it, okay? I hate it. I just hate it.” She swallowed. “I’ll tell you everything.” She walked over to the bar, hoping Mitch would follow at the same time she wished he would just tell her, “Sorry, I don’t like complications.” It was so much easier not letting anyone inside. Sharing her pain made it more real.
Mitch followed, sat next to her. She motioned for a pint of Guinness for her and Mitch and waited for the bartender to serve them before saying, “That damn Fed probably told you everything.” She took a long swallow.
“Not really.