Sunken Graves Alan Lee (reading e books .txt) 📖

His comment earned a second glance from the couple hurrying by with bags from the Getty Mart.

“He’s feeding her? Oh damn,” said Murray in his ear.

Hathaway said, “I need to use the lady’s room, Peter. And then I’d like to go.”

“Oh would you.”

“The wine’s gone to my head.”

A slow nod. “I understand. I understand you perfectly.”

She checked her phone. Dropped the napkin over it again. Stood and walked across the restaurant.

He watched her go. So did the others nearby and Lynch enjoyed a fantasy of sliding his butter knife into their retinas. Don’t look at my date.

As soon as Daisy was in the restroom, he snapped off her napkin. Picked up her phone.

The device was several generations old, cradled in a pink case. It wasn’t locked and she had no new notifications. Her background appeared to be a song lyric. I miss me more - Kelsea Ballerini.

There might be time to read her messages. Discover if she harbored any from Daniel Jennings. His thumb hovered over the iMessage app.

A bright icon in the top left corner caught his attention. The icon was a red microphone. He knew that microphone, saw it on his own screen occasionally. He used it in depositions.

Lynch felt the stirrings of anger again. His constant companion.

He pressed the icon and the Voice Memos app opened and so did the truth.

Daisy was recording their conversation. So far, forty-four minutes.

He rose in a rush, bumping the table. Red at the edges of his vision. Teeth grinding. He grabbed his chair, ready to hoist it as a club.

But. No. No no no.

Not here. Not like this. People were staring at him. Too many witnesses, he would lose. Would lose his daughter.

Air rattled through his nasal passages and filled his great lungs. Released. Then another breath. In his head his father was berating him.

You want to go to prison? Over that girl?

I risk my neck for you one more time, I’m done. Hear me?

Lynch lowered again. He needed to be analytical. Logical. Ignore the rage, think through the facts. Forget the panic. That’s what he felt, panic.

He stared at her empty seat. Her fork. Her glass of wine. The imprints of her lips on the rim. The dregs of chardonnay. The wine she loved.

He missed her toe playing with his leg.

Daisy wouldn’t betray him. He offered her everything.

He didn’t even know why she was recording him. Hell, he recorded people all the time. He took depositions for a living. She could be playing it safe, and that was all.

Yes. Playing it safe. She was worried to be with him, and who could blame her. Her body was so little compared to his.

She’d been enthralled. Gazing at him, encouraging him. She glowed, filled him with rapture. She’d taken innocent precautions, that’s all.

But even so. Evidence was evidence.

Lynch picked up her glass of water and poured a splash onto her phone. Waited. Nothing happened. Poured more into the charging port.

Water resistant.

He picked the phone up and squeezed. Powerful hand bunching. The metal compressed and the plastic case cracked. Water droplets found the straining seams and drained into the phone, into the electronics within…

The device blinked off. The acrid smell of fried circuits reached his nose. It was dead.

Lynch didn’t smile. Instead he pursed his lips and laid her napkin over the ruined phone. He withdrew his own device. Pressed record and returned it to his pants.

Despite her beauty and enthusiasm and vigor, Daisy had to learn.

He raised his hand to call for their waitress.

“Take some of this away.” He indicated the food.

“All done, sir?”

“We are. And bring the check.”

“Of course, sir.”

The waitress reached for the plates, potatoes and fish only half eaten. Instead, Lynch picked up Daisy’s water glass and presented it, forcing her to take it, but he fumbled the handoff.

The glass hit the table on its bottom edge and water spouted across their dishes. Across her napkin and phone.

“Oh! Sir! I’m so sorry.”

Lynch stood and shook water off his hands.

“Clean up your mess,” he muttered, “you bitch.”

“Looks like Ms. Hathaway went to the restroom,” Craig said over the speaker.

Jennings’ head rested on the steering wheel and he nodded to himself. He was staring down at his lap and at the bright phone. Impatiently waiting. He’d been in the position for a lifetime. Wondering what Lynch and Hathaway were talking about. Doubting this would ever work. Praying. Doubting some more.

And then something unexpected happened.

Hathaway’s dot vanished from the map.

33

Alone in the bathroom, Hathaway smothered a sob into her elbow. She’d already thrown up once and refused to do it again. Elbow across her mouth, staring at her reflection in the mirror, waiting for the pallor to pass. Waiting to stop shaking and sweating.

Deep breaths. It was almost over. Did she have enough strength? Did she have enough evidence? Lynch had blurted a lot. She’d left her phone, hoping he’d mumble confessions to himself.

Hathaway washed her hands a third time. She wanted to wash her feet and brush her teeth too.

She’d rather do anything than go back out there. Than keep smiling at that….at that…madman.

I do worse than hurt the girls.

Do as you’re told and it’ll always be delicious.

I have a field. Beyond the stable.

A field? What on EARTH did that mean?

Her stomach roiled again.

No. I can do this. I can do this for the girls he’ll hurt. I can do this for Daniel. For me.

She fastened one of the buttons of her shirt. Then another. She was exhausted, worn down by Lynch’s eyes and innuendo. Disgusted with herself and her smiles. For letting him feed her. For playing footsie. Felt like she’d run a marathon. She needed less skin showing now, needed him to cool off before she got into his car.

Okay. Here we go.

She crossed herself, something she hadn’t done since high school.

Give me strength.

She emerged to find Lynch and the waitress mopping up their table. The woman apologizing, near tears, the other patrons staring.

“She spilled water everywhere,” groused Lynch. “Our