Telling Secrets. Tracy Montoya
her to spill her guts. But she’d known about the body, and if she knew that, then she probably knew something about his father. Once he figured out the best way to approach her, he wasn’t leaving until he’d gotten the information he needed.
But first, he had to get through Sophie’s neighbors, who were all significantly older than she, and apparently took their personal security very seriously. At least five Sunnyside octogenarians had trundled out in the last ten minutes to ask him what it was he wanted, who he was there to see and how long he planned to wait before he went home. Now that resident number six had arrived, he knew he had to figure out his plan sooner rather than later. Obviously Sophie’s neighbors weren’t going to give him the five damned minutes of quiet he needed to calm down and get himself together.
He tried to smile at the woman outside his truck, but his face felt tight and uncooperative. “I’m just waiting for someone,” he finally said, knowing full well that she wasn’t going to just nod and walk away.
“Oh?” She clamped her hand around the top of the glass, so he couldn’t roll it back up without crushing her knobby fingers. “Who are you waiting for?”
He clenched his fingers around the steering wheel, half-tempted to wrench the thing off, just for some kind of release. “Sophie.”
“Sophie who?” She leaned in closer, her beady eyes and half of her gray perm filling up the space between the window glass and the top of his door.
“Sophie Brennan.”
The woman seemed to consider that for a moment. “Sophie never has gentlemen callers, especially after nine o’clock. I’d know about it. What’s your name? Where do you live? What makes you think she wants to see you this late? The poor girl has her weekend study group tomorrow morning, you know.”
“Ma’am, I’m not a gentleman caller. I’m just—” He yanked the keys out of the ignition, pausing when he couldn’t think of how to finish that last statement. What was he? And more importantly, why couldn’t he have just walked up to Sophie’s apartment right away, instead of lurking out here and rousting the blue-haired brigade? “Wait a minute. Who are you? Where do you live? Because you can’t be building security.”
“Millie Price. And I’m not going to tell you where I live.” She backed away from the window, raising her chin—all the better to slant a superior look at him. “You might be a rapist.”
Oh, for the love of— “I’m not a rapist, ma’am. I’m a park ranger.” He sighed. “I’m here to talk to her about my father.” There. Just enough personal information so that maybe the woman would sense she’d crossed a line and back off already.
“I’m going to need to see some ID.”
He pushed the door open and jumped out of the truck cab, his boots crunching into the snow. She reared back, clearly affronted, then fished her hand into the pocket of her lumpy light blue winter coat. Pulling out a pair of reading glasses, she settled them on her face and tilted her head so she could peer over the rims at him. Was it his imagination, or was an old lady who dressed like a Smurf actually getting all up in his face?
“Ma’am, with all due respect, I’m not here to see you. I’m here to see Sophie,” he said. “And unless flames start shooting out of her apartment or you hear screams from behind her door, the rest is none of your business.” With that, he brushed past her and headed for the building’s front gate.
He heard her scurry along close behind him. “I’ll have you know your presence is every bit my business,” she huffed. “I’m the Sunnyside Neighborhood Watch captain, and you, sir, are a loiterer.”
He felt a hand clutch at his parka. Mustering up the last of his patience, he turned to face her. “Look, Torquemada—”
“It’s okay, Mrs. Price,” a soft voice interrupted from a few feet away. And when Alex looked up, Sophie Brennan was standing underneath a nearby streetlight, her arms crossed over her chest against the cold night air. Again, she wasn’t wearing a coat, and instead of the clunky black shoes she’d had on earlier that day, she wore a pair of thick suede and cork Birkenstock sandals over her socks. Her face looked flushed and her eyelids heavy with sleep, as if she’d just tumbled out of bed and directly into the parking lot, pausing only to slip on yet another pair of inappropriate footgear. “I know him. Your work here is done.”
Sophie delivered that last without the faintest trace of irony, for which he had to hand it to her, but it didn’t seem to cheer Millie any. Clutching the lapels of her puffy blue coat with both hands, the elderly woman harrumphed at him and lumbered off like a grouchy bear that had had its supper stolen. It occurred to him that though he’d read the word plenty of times, he hadn’t ever actually heard a human being harrumph before.
Once Millie was safely out of earshot, he focused his attention on Sophie, who rarely if ever had gentlemen callers, especially at midnight. And he felt an absurd urge to brush away the snowflakes that were falling gently onto her hair. Either that or wrap his arms around her and lose himself and all the pent-up anger and frustration and confusion he felt in her. He immediately squashed that jacked-up impulse—there was a reason he was here, and it wasn’t to put the moves on a woman who was basically a stranger to him and possibly connected to his murdering fugitive of a father.
“One of my neighbors told me a guy about my age was hanging around outside,” she said. “I thought it might be you.”
“Of course you did. You’re psychic.” He wiggled his fingers at her sarcastically, pretending to shoot lightning bolts out of the tips.
“And you are poorly socialized and have awkward people skills.” With that, she turned away from him and headed down the brick walkway toward Sunnyside’s front gate, her heavy sandals slapping down the path, leaving tire-tread patterns in the thin layer of snow.
“I need to talk to you,” he called out after her.
Without turning, she unlocked the gate and pulled it open, causing the wrought iron to creak mightily on its hinges. Just when he thought he was going to have to make a run for it and muscle his way in after her, she turned and held the gate open. He jogged toward her, needing no further invitation.
They walked into the center courtyard of the building, which was built like a giant doughnut. Apartments circled about ten stories into the air, completely surrounding the courtyard. Besides some landscaped areas that were going to need replanting soon, the interior of Sunnyside View boasted a small swimming pool, a large brick sunning area and a staff nurse who, according to the sign by the door marked with a red cross, was on call 24/7. He wondered what someone Sophie’s age was doing in a place like this. He wondered what connection someone like her had to his father. He wondered why every instinct he had told him Sophie Brennan was a good person, when she obviously was hiding some sinister connection to the one human being he hated in this world. And all of that wondering made him want to shake her until she abandoned this psychic garbage and just told him the truth.
He followed her into an elevator, and she pressed the button for the eighth floor. An uncomfortable silence stretched between them as they watched the numbers slowly tick upward, until, finally, the doors opened and they both spilled gratefully into the hallway. As soon as they were inside her apartment, he sprung.
“Jack Runningwater.”
“Excuse me?” A small, confused line appeared in between her eyebrows as she made her way toward the cheerful yellow kitchen that sat in the far corner of the apartment.
“Jack Runningwater. I’m playing word association with you—that’s your game, isn’t it?” He followed close behind, watching as she fished two glasses out of one of the cupboards. “What does that name mean to you?”
She was silent for a moment as she filled both glasses with ice water from the beat-up refrigerator’s dispenser; then, she shook her head. “Absolutely nothing,” she tossed out casually. Too casually, in his opinion.
He paced to the far side of her kitchen and gripped the counter with both hands. Pushing off it,