Page 82 of Love Always

He’s not happy—he was going to catch up on paperwork, but it’s unavoidable. Campus is one of the possible high contact points and we will need another pair of eyes.

“I have to take a quick shower,” she says and smiles, but the curl in her lips doesn’t reach her eyes. A small nagging worry begins in the back of my brain.

There’s something she’s not telling me.

΅

“We aren’t meeting on campus,” she says as we pass the first exit into Portland, and then with a tight smile adds, “he says he does this for all his students.”

“Does what?”

“Takes them to lunch.”

“It’s not lunch time.” I grip the wheel. What is this guy’s game?

“Don’t make me defend him. He said he likes to have a more informal meeting and, because of our ‘history,’ he thinks it’s really important.”

“He emailed that to you? He used the word ‘history’?”

“That part was a text.”

I shake my head. “You have to meet on campus.”

“I don’t want to get weird with him. It’s not a big deal. It’s a cafe around the corner from the campus and it’ll be fine. We’ll sit in a window so you can keep an eye on me.”

She completely reads my silence correctly and offers more explanation. “I think he feels bad about the press coverage. He obviously does not think I’m a murderer and I think he’s just trying to be, you know, like my friendly uncle.”

I am sure he is not trying to be her “friendly uncle” but I keep my mouth shut. Adjusting the rearview mirror offers a clear view of the second Lexus tracking us from behind. I flip on the left turn style, turn off the highway, and head east toward the curved tip of land where the college sits. We would be free this afternoon to be out and about again, to try and lure someone to try for some DNA. After Claire’s attack, Finn had cameras trained on entrances to the clinic, The Inn and her apartment. Now the apartment camera is being used to surveil a possible future break-in. That’s his theory of how the DNA could be collected. I disagree. The sample would have to be pristine and that is a co-habited space. The water bottle is the best bait.

“What’s this place called?”

“Figaro’s,” she says crossing her arms.

“I’m not waiting in the car. I’ll grab a booth or a table with a line of sight to you, but I won’t be able to see everything. Just pay attention to anything that’s weird … Hey. You okay with this? We can just blow it off.”

When she looks at me her face is small and drawn and pale. “No, it’s fine. It’s just that I don’t like the way he said ‘history,’ like there’s something between us. I’ll be glad when this class is over.”

΅

Figaro’s is a long, narrow building, about twenty feet wide and about twice as long, with small, square tables for two set up and short bench seats in the windows. It’s busy with students and young mothers, with strollers parked in a pastel clutch outside the door and babies on hips inside. I stroll in behind her holding the door open with my arm above her head.

Cruz is not here yet, so she finds a seat against the wall and I park myself on the other side. My single coffee order elicits nothing but a grimace from the waitress. As usual, I’m not hungry. Cruz’s MO could be studied in a course, he is so textbook. With everything else going on, she shouldn’t have to deal with him.

Five minutes later the place is pretty packed. Classes must have let out. Cruz comes in, glances around, stomps his feet, takes off a huge overcoat and hangs it on a peg. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but she’s smiling and reaches out to shake his hand. He clasps hers and then puts his other hand on top—a slight entrapment. It takes everything not to rise up and smack him on the side of the head. When he sits down, he catches a glimpse of me and passes off a subtle nod. He knows I’m here.

They talk fifteen minutes or so while the waitress takes their orders. The place is hot and I’ve shed both my coat and sweater by the time their food arrives. Cruz has his laptop out on the tiny little table and they’re both craning their necks looking at grades, papers, whatever he’s got pulled up. Her backpack is on the floor between them.

I just don’t like how close he’s getting to her. Laurel asks the waitress for something and then the waitress heads toward me.

“Can I get you anything else besides that coffee?” she says, her pad out. She suddenly blocks my view of their table.

“No. No thanks.”

“Oh, come on,” she starts shifting her weight.

I pitch forward to try and see around her.

“A guy built like you needs protein, right?”