“He said he was born in Vermont, then raised in London. His parents were theater people. They’re dead. He never talked about any other relatives. He always seemed so…self-sufficient. He didn’t have any close friends, not even from work. At least, none he introduced me to.”
“Oh, yes. His work. I’ve been checking on that. It seems he was listed on the Bank of London payroll. He had a desk in some back office. But no one remembers quite what he did.”
“Then even that part wasn’t real.”
“So it seems.”
Sarah sank deeper into the seat. Each thing this man told her left another slash in the fabric of her life. Her marriage was dissolving away to nothing. It had been all shadow and no substance. Reality was here and now, the rain hitting the car, the windshield wipers beating back and forth. Most of all, reality was the man sitting silently beside her. He was not an illusion. She scarcely knew him, and yet he’d become the only reality she could cling to.
She wondered about Nick O’Hara. She didn’t think he was married. Despite his aloofness she found him attractive enough; any woman would have. But there was more than just the physical attraction. She sensed his need. Something told her he was lonely, troubled. Vague shadows of unhappiness surrounded his eyes, creating a feeling of restlessness; it was the look of a man without a home. He probably had none. The foreign service was a career for nomads, not for people who craved a house in the suburbs. Nick O’Hara was definitely not the suburban type.
Shivering, she longed desperately to be back in her apartment, drinking that cup of tea with Abby. It won’t be long, she thought as the streets became more and more familiar. Connecticut Avenue glistened in the rain. The downpour had already stripped the cherry trees of half their blossoms; the first rush of spring had been short-lived.
They pulled up in front of her apartment, and Nick dashed around the car to open her door. It was a funny little gesture, the sort of thing Geoffrey used to do, gallant and sweetly impractical. By the time they stamped into the lobby they were both soaked. The rain had plastered his hair in dark curls against his forehead.
“I suppose you have more questions.” She sighed as they headed toward the stairs leading to the second floor.
“If you mean do I want to come up, the answer is yes.”
“For tea or interrogation?”
He smiled and brushed away the water dripping down his cheek. “A little of both. I’ve had so much trouble getting hold of you, I’d better ask all my questions now.”
They reached the top of the stairs. She was just about to say something when the hallway came into view. What she saw made her freeze.
The door to her apartment was hanging open. Someone had broken in.
Instinctively Sarah retreated, terrified of whatever lay beyond the door. She fell back against Nick and found herself wordlessly clutching his arm. He stared at the open door, his face suddenly tense. Except for the pounding of her own heart, she heard nothing. The apartment was absolutely silent.
Light spilled into the hall through the open doorway. Nick motioned her to stay where she was, then cautiously approached the door. Sarah started to follow him, but he gave her such a dark look of warning that she shrank back at once.
He nudged the door open, and the arc of light widened and spilled across his face. For a few seconds, he stood in the doorway, staring at the room beyond. Then he entered the apartment.
In the hall Sarah waited, frightened by the absolute silence. What was happening inside? A shadow flickered in the doorway, and panic began to overtake her as she watched the outline grow larger. Then, to her relief, Nick poked his head out.
“It’s all right, Sarah,” he said. “There’s no one here.”
She ran past him into the apartment. In the living room, she paused, surprised by what she saw. She had expected to find her possessions gone, to find only empty shelves where her TV and stereo had always sat. But nothing had been touched. Even the antique clock was in its place, ticking softly on the bookshelf.
She turned and ran into the bedroom with Nick close behind. He watched from the doorway as she went directly to the jewelry box on her dresser. There, on red velvet, was her string of pearls, right where it should be. Slamming the box shut, she turned and quickly surveyed the room, taking in the king-size bed, the nightstand with its china lamp, the closet. In confusion she looked back at Nick.
“What’s missing?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Nothing. Could I have just left the door unlocked?”
He stalked out of her bedroom, back to the hall. She found him crouched in the doorway. “Look,” he said, pointing down at the wood splinters and fragments of antique-white paint littering the gray carpet. “It’s definitely been forced open.”
“But it doesn’t make sense! Why break into an apartment and then not take anything?”
“Maybe he didn’t have time. Maybe he was interrupted….” Rising, he turned and looked at her. “You look shook up. Are you all right?”
“I’m just—just bewildered.”
He touched her hand; his fingers felt hot against hers. “You’re also freezing. You’d better get out of those wet clothes.”
“I’m fine, Mr. O’Hara. Really.”
“Come on. Off with the coat.” He insisted. “And sit down while I make a few calls.”
Something about his tone seemed to leave Sarah no choice but to obey. She let him tug off her coat, then sat on the couch and watched numbly as he reached for the telephone. Suddenly she felt as though she’d lost control of her actions. As though, just by walking into her apartment, Nick O’Hara had taken over her life. Almost as an act of protest, she rose and headed for the kitchen.
“Sarah?”
“I’m going to make a pot of tea.”
“Look, don’t go to any trouble—”
“It’s no trouble. We could both use a cup, I think.”
From the kitchen doorway, she saw him dial his call. As she put the kettle on, she heard him say, “Hello? Tim Greenstein, please. This is Nick O’Hara calling…. Yes, I’ll hold.”
The next pause seemed to last forever. Nick began to pace back and forth, like an animal in a cage, first pulling off his overcoat, then loosening his tie. His agitation made him entirely out of place in her small, tidy living room.
“Shouldn’t you call the police?” she asked.
“That’s next on the list. First I’d like an informal chat with the bureau. If I can just get through the damned lines.”
“The bureau? You mean the FBI? But why?”
“There’s something about all this that bugs me….”
His words were lost when the kettle abruptly whistled. Sarah filled the teapot and carried the tray out to the living room, where Nick was still waiting on the phone.
“Dammit,” he muttered to himself. “Where the hell are you, Greenstein?”
“Tea, Mr. O’Hara?”
“Hmm?” He turned and saw the cup she held out to him. “Yeah. Thanks.”
She sat down, holding a cup and saucer on her lap. “Does Mr. Greenstein work for the FBI?”
“No. But he has a friend who—hello? Tim? It’s about time! Don’t you answer your calls anymore?”
In the silence that followed, Nick’s face and the way he stood, with his shoulders squared and his back rigid, told Sarah that something was wrong. He was livid. The loud clatter of his teacup on the saucer made her jump.
“How