“You don’t owe me anything.”
“I might need you.”
“That is different.”
I turned my hand palm-up on the blanket. After a moment, he placed his hand over mine, carefully avoiding the bruises.
His hand was warm.
“I don’t need another man deciding my life,” I said.
“I know.”
“But I don’t want to do this alone.”
His fingers tightened slightly. “You won’t.”
In the morning, Marianne returned with news.
“We found Clara Whitcomb.”
My heart jumped. “Where is she?”
“At her home outside Boulder. She agreed to speak with me, but only in person, and only to you.”
“I can’t go anywhere.”
“I explained that.”
“And?”
“She said she has waited twenty-seven years. She can wait another few days, but not much longer.”
Adrian, who had been reviewing documents near the window, looked up sharply. “What does that mean?”
Marianne’s expression was troubled. “She sounded frightened.”
