Chapter 7 - The Questions She Could Refuse
Wren stayed on the floor without answering. Through the door came the muted sound of a woman shifting her weight in the hallway.
"I'm Detective Lenore Briggs," the voice said. "I understand this may be a bad time. I'm not here with a warrant. You don't have to let me in."
Wren put her eye against the peephole. A woman in a dark coat held a badge low at her side and stood alone. She had close-cropped gray hair and a folded umbrella. Nothing about her looked theatrical, which was somehow more frightening.
"Who told you where I was?" Wren asked.
"Mr. Kane's office confirmed an address after I asked about the salon photographs. That shouldn't have happened without talking to you. I'm sorry."
Wren thought of the number Jo had written on a receipt, of Marco's curious questions, of Adrian's apologetic face. She wanted a door she could open without another person deciding what happened next.
"Go away," she said.
"All right. I left my card under the mat. It has the precinct number, so you can verify who I am."
Wren waited until the footsteps disappeared. She checked the corridor before she bent to retrieve the card.
A minute later she called Adrian.
"Did you send a detective?"
"No."
"She had my address."
He was silent. She could hear a car horn through his phone.
"I'll find out who gave it to her," he said.
"I don't want you to find anyone. I want you to stop deciding who gets to know me."
"You're right."
"You've said that before."
"I know."
She hung up, then pulled the cheap curtains across the windows. It was late morning, but the room turned dim.
At the police station Detective Briggs was not, in fact, investigating a miracle survivor. She was reviewing an old missing-person file because a renewed public lead had brought calls from several people who claimed to be Iris Vale. The unit had to check the leads, even the embarrassing ones. Briggs also handled a separate investigation into the assault on Adrian, which had happened near a theater connected to a long-running dispute between two private security contractors. She had hoped a brief, voluntary conversation with Wren might establish whether the woman had seen any of the attackers.
She didn't like that Adrian's company had given out an address. She wrote that in her notes.
At lunch Marco entered Adrian's office without knocking. Adrian was on a call about a warehouse shipment. He ended it when he saw his lieutenant's face.
"You gave her location to the police," Marco said.
"My assistant did. Briggs contacted the front office. I didn't know until afterward."
"It's your company."
"Yes."
"Then start acting like the mistakes are yours too."
Adrian had paid Marco to tell him unpleasant truths for years, but Marco rarely did it so plainly.
"I called the office manager," Adrian said. "I told her Wren's information is private and that anyone who asks about her should be referred directly to Wren. I've put that in writing."
"Good. What about the people who shot at you?"
"Still out there."
"And you're sitting here pretending it's just a bad business meeting."
The dispute had begun over security for several nightclubs. Adrian had pressed an operator named Salvatore Voss to give up contracts he'd obtained through intimidation. Then Adrian's own men had applied pressure that was hardly gentler. Voss had agreed to meet and settled the disagreement with an ambush. Adrian could describe the shooting to the police. He could also explain why he'd gone there armed and why two of his drivers had driven away from the official route. None of it would make him look innocent.
"If we go to the police, they look into everything," Adrian said.
"Maybe some of it needs looking into."
"You too?"
Marco held his gaze. "Especially me. I signed off on the cars."
Adrian looked down at the place where his bandage still tugged against his shirt. He was accustomed to danger when it came with a chance of winning. Being asked to accept consequences without controlling the score was a different kind of risk.
In the apartment, Wren heated soup and burned her tongue. She ate it anyway, standing by the stove. Her scalp itched where the medicated lotion was drying. She'd been given a follow-up appointment but hadn't written down the time; she called the clinic and asked the receptionist to repeat it twice. It took three attempts to get the phone number right.
Then she did something she had never willingly done before: she dialed the police station.
"Detective Briggs? It's Wren. You came to my door."
"Thank you for calling. Would you prefer to speak by phone?"
"I want to know why you said Iris."
"We have an old missing-person report. I made an assumption based on what I'd seen in the news. I shouldn't have used the name with you."
Wren gripped the edge of the counter. "Can I see what the report says?"
"Some information may be available to the person concerned, but first we'd need to establish who you are. We can explain the process, and you can bring someone you trust. You don't need to answer anything today."
"Is Adrian Kane there?"
"No. He's someone else we need to speak with about a separate incident."
Wren almost asked whether Adrian was dangerous. She'd hidden beneath her hair to save his life; she didn't need the detective to tell her he lived among dangerous people. Instead she asked a different question.
"When someone goes missing, do the people who look for them ever stop?"
Briggs took a moment. "Sometimes the search becomes quieter. It doesn't mean the person stopped counting."
Wren ended the call and took the bell from the windowsill. She rolled it in her fingers until its cord made a faint scraping sound.
That evening Jo arrived with soup from the grocery store and a clean cotton scarf. "You don't need to wear it," she said. "But if the cold gets your head, it might help."
They sat at the small table. Jo talked about her daughter's science project, a model volcano that refused to erupt until it had stained three towels. Wren listened and eventually laughed. It hurt her throat, which made her laugh harder.
After Jo left, Wren picked up Detective Briggs's card again. She didn't want to tell her past to a stranger with a badge. She did want to know whether the girl in the photograph had done the thing she feared most.
She sent Briggs a message asking for an appointment next week.
Then she texted Adrian: I am speaking to the detective myself. Please do not speak for me.
May you like
His response came nearly an hour later.
Understood. I have something I should tell her too.
