Call After Midnight by Tess Gerritsen Page A

streamed across the windshield. Nick left the freeway and edged into city-bound traffic. Driving through D.C. rush hour usually made Sarah nervous; today, though, she took it calmly. Something about the way Nick O’Hara drove made her feel safe. In fact, everything about him spoke of safety—the steadiness of his hands on the wheel, the warmth of his car, the low timbre of his voice. Just sitting beside him, she felt secure. She could imagine how safe a woman might feel in his arms.
    â€œAnyway,” he continued, “you can see we’ve got a lot of unanswered questions. You might have some of the answers, whether you know it or not.”
    â€œI don’t have any answers.”
    â€œLet’s start off with what you do know.”
    She shook her head, bewildered. “I was married to him and I can’t even tell you his real name!”
    â€œEveryone, Sarah, even the best spy, slips up. He must’ve let his guard down for a moment. Maybe he talked in his sleep. Maybe he said things you can’t explain. Think .”
    She bit her lip, suddenly thinking not about Geoffrey, but about Nick. He’d called her by her first name. Sarah. “Even if there were things,” she said, “little things—I might not have considered them significant.”
    â€œSuch as?”
    â€œOh, he might have—he might have called me Evie once or twice. But he always apologized right away. He said she was an old girlfriend.”
    â€œWhat about family? Friends? Didn’t he talk about them?”
    â€œHe said he was born in Vermont, then raised in London. His parents were theater people. They’re dead. Henever talked about any other relatives. He always seemed so…self-sufficient. He didn’t have any close friends, not even from work. At least, none he introduced me to.”
    â€œOh, yes. His work. I’ve been checking on that. It seems he was listed on the Bank of London payroll. He had a desk in some back office. But no one remembers quite what he did.”
    â€œThen even that part wasn’t real.”
    â€œSo it seems.”
    Sarah sank deeper into the seat. Each thing this man told her left another slash in the fabric of her life. Her marriage was dissolving away to nothing. It had been all shadow and no substance. Reality was here and now, the rain hitting the car, the windshield wipers beating back and forth. Most of all, reality was the man sitting silently beside her. He was not an illusion. She scarcely knew him, and yet he’d become the only reality she could cling to.
    She wondered about Nick O’Hara. She didn’t think he was married. Despite his aloofness she found him attractive enough; any woman would have. But there was more than just the physical attraction. She sensed his need. Something told her he was lonely, troubled. Vague shadows of unhappiness surrounded his eyes, creating a feeling of restlessness; it was the look of a man without a home. He probably had none. The foreign service was a career for nomads, not for people who craved a house in the suburbs. Nick O’Hara was definitely not the suburban type.
    Shivering, she longed desperately to be back in her apartment, drinking that cup of tea with Abby. It won’t be long, she thought as the streets became more and more familiar. Connecticut Avenue glistened in the rain. The downpour had already stripped the cherry trees of half their blossoms; the first rush of spring had been short-lived.
    They pulled up in front of her apartment, and Nick dashed around the car to open her door. It was a funny little gesture, the sort of thing Geoffrey used to do, gallant and sweetly impractical. By the time they stamped into the lobby they were both soaked. The rain had plastered his hair in dark curls against his forehead.
    â€œI suppose you have more questions.” She sighed as they headed toward the stairs leading to the second floor.
    â€œIf you mean do I want to come up,