Page 70 of 56 Days
But the wail of the alarm continues, unabated.
Eventually he grabs a mask from the bathroom floor and his keys from the hall table and goes out into the corridor. The siren wail kicks it up a notch. Oliver hurries to the lobby where, through the glass doors, he sees the residents huddled outside in little groups. They stand at varying distances from each other, shifting their weight from foot to foot, arms crossed against their chests. Everyone has the pale, puffy face of the deep sleeper suddenly disturbed and is wearing some combination of pajamas and winter coat.
What no one is wearing, however, is a mask.
He quickly pulls off his own and stuffs it into a pocket before anyone can turn and look—wearing one when no one else is would only draw attention, would only make him stand out when what he needs to do is blend in.
Ciara isn’t among them.
He turns and looks at the main doors, the ones that lead out to the street. Would she have gone out there? Maybe she would if she had actually listened to him, if she thought that the fictional senior partner at his firm posed a threat.
He pushes through the doors and—
Sees her, standing a little ways up the street.
Relief, first of all.
But then he sees theotherfigure in the shadows, the featureless silhouette. A woman. The woman that Ciara is talking to. She’s dressed in day clothes, but she must be another resident, trying to escape the siren’s relentless wail.
Over this woman’s shoulder, Ciara’s eyes find him.
But at the same time, the woman turns to see what Ciara is looking at, a movement which illuminates her face with streetlamp light and—
Oliver abruptly ducks backs into the shadows of the doorway, out of sight.
What the—
It can’t be.
That would be an astronomical coincidence.
And it’s dark, it’s the middle of the night, he’s under stress and he only saw her for a fraction of a second...
But in bright light. And he’s been awake for a couple of hours already. And perhaps it’s no coincidence at all.
The woman with the scar and the cigarettes. Whom Oliver had scared half to death, unintentionally, outside the rear doors of the Westbury. Three weeks ago, when he’d taken Ciara there for cocktails.
Outside his apartment building at just after four in the morning, that’s who Ciara is talking to.
Today
“Mill River,” Karl repeats. “Shit. You think he’s one ofthem?”
Lee holds up a hand in astopgesture.
“Roll it back a bit there, Karly boy. We’ve no ID. All I am saying is that the name on that envelope is a match for one of those boys, and their names were never released to the public. They’re legally protected. Still are. And this was back in, what? 2003?Pre-Twitterand Facebook. Before people started violating court orders while sitting on their arses at home thumbing their phones. So apart from friends and family, the school, and probably a few people in the locality, the general public didn’t actually know this name.Ionly know it because I was on traffic at the funeral. I’m notsupposedto know it. I don’t, officially.”
“Who did you call?”
“The senior detective from back then.”
“And he confirmed?”
“Yup.”
“Shit,” Karl says again. “Could it be a coincidence?”
“Course it could. But I wouldn’t say that’s a very common name to find on an Irish twentysomething, would you?”
