Darby got out of his car, his cell phone up to his ear, glaring in my direction. He could clearly see me; I could clearly see him. I was busted. I waved. There was no reason not to be cordial. He scowled, snapped my picture, and then mouthed something that didn’t look at all like a Christian blessing, then jumped into his car and sped away. Vince Darby, one; foiled PI, zip. It took me less than a second to rise above the insult, but now I was well and truly over my crush.

Chapter 16

Chapter 16

Wednesday morning was a perfect day for either a bike ride or to sleep in with all the windows open to let a light breeze in, but Darby’s slip the day before still stung. I was bound and determined to find out what he was up to, but first, I wanted to take a shot at talking to Tim’s mother. Stephen had gone out of his way to cast Tim as unstable, and I wanted to know why. So far he’d done a good job of avoiding me, going so far as to point his lawyer in my direction. If I wanted to get anything from him, I was going to have to try to force his hand by going over his head.

I slipped out my back door just after ten and raced down the back stairs. There were no strange cars idling in the alley, nor did I see anyone loitering anywhere. Good. I breathed a sigh of relief. Since the assault on my home months earlier, I saw shadows and threats looming around every corner. I couldn’t convince myself, no matter how hard I tried, that all I was seeing were ghosts of past tragedies. My home was safe. My family was safe. Yet, the ghosts remained. I ran down the wooden steps, past the second-floor landing, headed for the first floor. I was hoping to breeze right past Mrs. Vincent’s back door without rousing her, only to round the corner and come face-to-face with her. I stopped, dead in my tracks.

“Looks like you’re in a hurry.” She rocked slowly in her patio rocker, as though time meant nothing, as though she were looking out onto some scenic vista, instead of out over the alley and the city’s battered garbage carts. “Haven’t seen you much lately.”

She was dressed in a pink housecoat and matching slippers, her gray hair pulled back from her round, dark face and held in a neat twist. She was sitting at her white café table, a teapot and a dainty plate of tea cakes on top, hanging pots of fragrant hydrangea swaying gently in a light breeze. She stared up at me, and I stared back.

“Work,” I said.

The rocking was steady, slow, a little creepy. Like that rocking-chair scene at the end of Psycho. A slow, steady, dead-body rock. “Uh-huh.”