Dark Debts by Karen Hall Page B

might be a chance . . .”
    After a long moment he turned and looked at her again. He didn’t appear angry. Maybe a little defeated. “I don’t suppose it would do any good to ask you not to mention it.”
    Randa didn’t answer. God, this stroke of luck, this great angle, and he wanted her to just ignore it. She didn’t know him. She didn’t owe him anything. So why did she feel she couldn’t betray an unspoken loyalty?
    He picked up his sunglasses. “I know, it’s a ridiculous thing for me to ask. You’re obviously very good at your job.” Before she could figure out what to say, he was gone. She watched him go, knowing it would do no good to call him back.
    For days after that she’d found herself missing him. How she could miss someone she didn’t know was a mystery to her, but she did. She’d almost managed to clear it from her mind when, about a month after their dinner, she was surprised to get a phone call from him at her office.
    â€œWhat happened to the article?” he asked, without any preamble.
    â€œI scrapped it.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œI didn’t think I could write it honestly if I didn’t go into your background, and I didn’t think I could sleep well if I did.” He didn’t say anything, so she added, “I’m sure you’ve been through enough.”
    â€œYou don’t even know me.” He sounded incredulous, and impressed.
    She thought about it and decided to risk him thinking she was nuts. “I know, but I feel like I do. I know it sounds crazy, but the minute you sat in that booth, I thought, ‘Oh yeah, there’s Cam.’ I can’t explain it, it was weird.”
    â€œI know. I felt the same way. It wasn’t like we just met, it was like we were . . . reunited. I almost said something about it, but I was afraid you’d think I was coming on to you.”
    She might as well go for broke. “Maybe I wouldn’t have minded that.”
    â€œYeah, but my wife probably would have.”
    Damn. Of course he was married. She felt like a fool. But then, he hadn’t exactly mentioned it at dinner.
    â€œAre you still there?” he asked.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œListen, let’s get together again. I’ll give you the real interview.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œI don’t know. I guess I trust you not to turn it into a three-ring circus. And it’s probably time for me to stop hiding from it. Maybe that’s why you came along.”
    They had met for dinner a few days later, and he’d told her the story. ( “In broad strokes, okay? I can’t go through it in detail, I just can’t.”  ) It was fascinating, if relentlessly disturbing. Cam told it without much emotion; she guessed it was a self-preservation instinct. He told her about his father, Will Landry, a violent drunk who had brutalized the family. His mother, Lucy, a classic martyr/enabler who was more terrified of Will than of what he was doing to the rest of them. His brothers, marauding delinquents who had terrorized the neighborhoods in which they had lived. Each of them, however, had been artistically gifted in one way or another. He told her about Ethan, who was almost as talented a poet as he was a cat burglar. Tallen, who had grown up in reform schools and graduated to prisons; painted mesmerizing, melancholy landscapes that screamed of loneliness. He had been the most sensitive, and therefore the most troubled. (The rest of Tallen’s story, Cam had said, she could read in the papers.) And then there was Jack, his oldest brother, who had always been a complete mystery to Cam. It was partly because of the age difference, but mostly because Jack had hated Cam too much to reveal anything to him. Jack was the only one who hadn’t done anything artistic, although he’d been a voracious reader. Jack had never done much of anything, but he seemed to