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He was supposed to meet Brigid that night, at 8:30, at their spot by the river, at that quiet place between downtown and the suburbs, where the path along the river is less crowded, and trees provide a bit of privacy. It’s where they used to sometimes meet, when they were having their short, misguided, and messy affair.
The right woman has eluded him all these years. Perhaps it’s because of the job. Maybe he will still meet her, someday. And when he does, he tells himself, taking another look at the photo of Georgina Traynor, he’ll do a thorough background check on her himself.
Would she have gone to bed with him that night and lain beside him, knowing that she’d shot a man dead—with him never being any the wiser? Because Tom doesn’t believe that she wasn’t capable of killing her former husband; he’s sure now, after that outburst in the bathroom, that she is capable of it.
“I was almost afraid to get out of the car. But I was so worried about Karen. I saw her go behind a boarded-up restaurant. I got out of the car and walked closer. And then I heard shots. Three gunshots.” She closes her eyes briefly, opens them again. “I was petrified. It sounded like they came from inside the restaurant. Then I saw Karen come bolting out of there and hightail it for her car. She was wearing these pink rubber gloves, which I thought was odd. She tore them off before she got in the car. I stood there in the dark, against the building—I’m sure she didn’t see me—and watched her
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