Free Nine Years Gone by Chris Culver Page B

rumors?”
    “Just that he had hit on girls in our sorority. He even offered to buy books for a girl if she spent an evening with him.”
    That sounded like Dominique.
    “He can’t hurt anyone again.”
    “No,” said Katherine. “He certainly can’t.” She paused. “How long have you known that Tess was alive?”
    “That’s one of those questions I wanted to answer at home.”
    She lowered her chin. “A long time, then.”
    I nodded.
    “Jesus, honey,” she said, closing her eyes. She took a couple of steadying breaths and rested her hands flat against the exam table. “I need you to be honest. Do you still love her?”
    “No.”
    “Do you love me?”
    “With all my heart.”
    She leaned against the exam table. “I feel a little dizzy.”
    I stepped around the table and put my arm around her shoulder. She reached across my back and grabbed a fistful of my shirt to steady herself.
    “Are you all right?” I asked.
    She nodded, her eyes closed and her face drawn. “Just give me a minute.”
    I waited while she regained her composure.
    “This isn’t some kind of mean joke, is it?” she asked. “That’s really Tess?”
    “Unfortunately.”
    She ran a hand through her hair. “I’m going to take the rest of the afternoon off.”
    I looked at the door. “You want me to go?”
    She hesitated, but then nodded. “I need some time alone to process this.”
    “Are you okay?”
    “I don’t know.” She looked. “We’ll talk tonight. I’ve still got a lot of questions.”
    “I’ll answer them.”
    “Please take those pictures with you. I can’t look at them.”
    I gathered the photos into a neat pile but didn’t put them back into the envelope. “We’ll talk tonight. I’ll tell you everything.”
    She nodded. I left her there and walked out of the hospital with my head held low. The people in the waiting room gave me a wide berth, probably believing I had just received some bad news about a loved one.
    I could only think of two possibilities for what had just happened: Tess had hired the photographer, or someone really was after her—and that someone, for some absurd reason, decided to break up my marriage. As much as I wanted to believe my former girlfriend’s hands were clean, that didn’t make any sense. I’d deal with her when I could. First, though, I needed to find the photographer and make sure he destroyed those pictures before they sent me to jail.
    With every step I took, I found my anger building. Tess had intentionally hurt my wife. Despite our history, I had a hard time forgiving that.

12
    I took I-64—the locals still cling to its previous name and call it US 40—west toward Clayton, the inner-ring suburb which TopFlite Courier Services called home, not really sure what I was about to do. The old adage don’t shoot the messenger , popped into my mind, but I dismissed it just as quickly. Someone at TopFlite had to know who sent the pictures to Katherine. I didn’t know how I was going to get them to give me a name, but they were going to talk to me one way or another.
    Clayton, like Webster Groves, is an affluent suburb west of St. Louis and populated by mostly pale residents. Where Webster has towering trees and one-acre lawns, though, Clayton features steel high-rises and a dense business district. I parallel parked on the street near TopFlite’s front office and got out of my car. The smells of yeast and flour wafted from a bakery up the street, but at midafternoon, most of the city’s residents were at work, leaving few shoppers on the sidewalk.
    I considered going inside and screaming to see a manager, but she wouldn’t give up a customer’s name without a court order. A driver or other low-level employee might help me out, but he wouldn’t risk his job out of the goodness of his heart. Carrots and sticks . . . They, not love, make the world go round. I needed to give someone a reason to talk.
    I walked to the nearest ATM and withdrew three hundred dollars, the most