“I don’t know. I just have a feeling that the situation is worse than she’s willing to admit. Or at least admit to me. So … please, David? Please? I don’t know who else to ask.”

When he didn’t respond, she went on. “Maybe I’m overreacting. Maybe I’m imagining things. Maybe there’s no problem at all. But even if there isn’t, it would still be great if you could listen to her talk about her project, about these homicide victims and their families. It means so much to her. It’s the opportunity of a lifetime. She’s so determined, so confident.”

“You sound a little shaky.”

“I don’t know. I’m just … concerned.”

“About her project or about her ex-boyfriend?”

“Maybe both. I mean, on the one hand, it’s fantastic, right? But it just breaks my heart to think that she might be so determined and so confident and so independent that somehow she’d get in over her head without telling me, without my being able to help her. God, David, you have a son, right? Do you know what I’m feeling?”

Ten minutes after they’d ended the call, Gurney was still standing at the large north-facing den window, trying to makes sense of Connie’s uncharacteristically scattered tone, wondering why he’d finally agreed to talk to Kim and why the whole situation made him so uncomfortable.

He suspected that it had something to do with her last comment about his son. That, as always, was a sensitive area—for reasons he had no intention of examining right then.

The phone rang. He was surprised to find that he’d distractedly been holding it in his hand, having forgotten to hang it up. This time it really will be Huffbarger, he thought, calling to defend his idiotic cancellation policy. He was tempted to let it ring, let it go to the answering machine, let Huffbarger wait. But he also wanted to be done with it, didn’t want to be thinking about it. He pressed the TALK button.

“Dave Gurney here.”

A young female voice, clear and bright, said, “Dave, I want to thank you so much! Connie just called and told me that you’d be willing to talk to me.”

For a second he was confused. He always found it jarring when a parent was called by his or her first name.

“Kim?”

“Of course! Who did you think?” When he didn’t answer, she raced on. “Anyway, here’s why this situation is so cool. I’m headed up to Syracuse from the city. Right now I’m just where Route 17 meets I-81. Which means I can shoot across I-88 and be in Walnut Crossing in like thirty-five minutes. Is that okay with you? It’s super-short notice, I know, but it’s such serendipity! And I’m dying to see you again!”

Chapter 3

The Impact of Murder