Brian Freeman - The Voice Inside

The noise of the surf made it hard to hear her. A wicked gust roared from the water, and he watched her body absorb the blow. She wrapped her arms around herself. She wore a red blouse that was too light for the season and jeans that clung to her long legs. Her black curls quivered.

“Are you cold? Do you want to talk somewhere else?”

“I’m fine. The cold keeps me alert.”

“So what can I do for you, Eden? If you’re writing an article, or if you’re looking for an interview, I’m not interested. Sorry.”

She didn’t say anything immediately. Then she told him, “I was in court today.”

“I didn’t see you there.”

“No, I kept a low profile. I didn’t want to be recognized. I understand the hurt of the families, but they were unfair to you. The only thing you could have done is come forward with what you found out.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because based on what I know about you, you’re not the kind of man who looks away.”

“From what?”

“From anything,” she said.

“How is it that you know me at all?” he asked. He was wary because she was a journalist, but he also found it flattering that this woman had sought him out.

“I’ve been doing my homework on you,” Eden said.

“This sounds like an interview,” Frost replied.

“It’s not. Not really.”

“Then how can I help you?”

“Well, mostly, I want to help you.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” he said.

There was almost no one else on the beach, but she made sure they were alone. “Can I ask you one question first? It’s off the record and unofficial. I just want to know if I’m in the right place, talking to the right person. Although I’m pretty sure I am.”

“What’s the question?” Frost asked.

“Do you plan to reinvestigate the Golden Gate Murders?”

He stiffened. “That’s a question for my captain, Ms. Shay. I don’t have anything to say about it. My sister was one of the victims. Obviously, I can’t take the lead on any new investigation.”

She closed some of the distance between them, physically and emotionally. “I’m still Eden, not Ms. Shay. And I hope you won’t be offended if I call you Frost. This won’t work if we’re formal with each other.”

“What won’t work?”

“I wasn’t asking if the police are going to open the case again. Of course they are. I want to know if you plan to investigate the case yourself. Behind the scenes.”

“I have nothing to say about that.”

“Frost, once I walk away, this conversation never happened. No matter what you tell me, if you ask me to go, I go, and your secret is safe. I know you’d never put any new legal proceedings against Cutter in jeopardy.”

For some reason, Frost didn’t want her to walk away. Not yet. “Assume you’re right about me and my plans. Then what?”

“I told you. I want to help.”

“How? And why?”

Eden grabbed his hand. Her fingers were ice-cold. She knew she had him hooked and that he wouldn’t let her go until he’d heard what she had to say. “Look, I pretend to be a superwoman, but I’m freezing my ass off out here. Take me to dinner, and I’ll explain everything.”

By the second glass of wine, he’d finally seen Eden smile, but it was a sad smile. They were at Sutro’s at the Cliff House, a hundred yards up the highway from the beach. Their window table overlooked the ocean, but that was her doing, not his. The maître d’ and the waiter both knew who she was.

“Is it strange?” he asked. “Being recognized wherever you go?”

She sipped her pinot grigio and stared at the dark waves below them. “Don’t be too impressed. Since I moved back to the city, this has been one of my favorite haunts. That’s the only reason they know me.”

“I think you’re being modest. I remembered you.”

“Well, it doesn’t happen much anymore. I still publish in some of the major magazines, but people don’t really notice a byline. I’ve been out of the news for a few years. Most of the time now, people look at me, and they think they know me, but they can’t place the face. For a while, though, you’re right, I couldn’t go anywhere without people knowing who I was. I didn’t like it much.”

“No?”

She touched her neck, where the scar was. “No. They didn’t see me and think, That’s the writer, Eden Shay. They saw me and thought, That’s the girl who was imprisoned in that basement in Iowa. I don’t want to be famous for that. I want to be famous for what I write in the Atlantic or the New Yorker . But that’s not how life works.”

“Sorry,” Frost said.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” she told him with a shade of annoyance. He understood. Everyone who met her was sorry, and it didn’t change a thing or make anything better. It had been that way with him after Katie died, too. People never knew what to say.

“You moved back to the city recently?” he said.

“That’s right. I moved to San Francisco after the assault. I owned a house over on Baker for a few years. That’s where I wrote my book. Then I went home to Australia six years ago to be with my father, and I only came back this year.”

“You don’t have family ties in the city?”

She shook her head. “No, I just love it here. We moved to the US when I was a teenager, and we spent a couple weeks here before heading to New York. I swore if I ever had the money, I’d move here. Eventually, I did.”

“So why did you leave?”

“You sound like you can’t imagine anyone leaving San Francisco,” she said, and that was when he saw the smile.

“I can’t.”

“You’re a lifer?” she asked.

“Born and raised.”

“Well, that must be nice. Honestly, I didn’t want to move away, but life intervened. My father found out he was in the early stages of Alzheimer’s. He wanted to go back home to Australia for his final years, and I moved there to take care of him. He passed away last year, so I came back to San Francisco. Now I’m like you. I don’t think I’ll leave again.”

“Welcome home,” Frost said, raising his glass.

“Thank you.”

They drank more wine. They both ordered mussels and Thai bouillabaisse. They talked, and he found himself sharing more than he usually did with a stranger, which meant that she was a savvy journalist. He told her about his parents divorcing after Katie’s death and then getting back together again. He told her about his fight with Duane, who hadn’t spoken to him in more than a week. She shared things about herself, too. She told him about her older brother, who’d overshadowed her his whole life. He was a CNN war correspondent who’d spent years embedded with the troops, living with them, seeing war through their eyes, and telling their stories. Until an IED killed him in Afghanistan.

He realized they had grief in common. They’d both lost siblings.

They were drinking coffee and eating tiramisu when she finally said, “You’ve been very patient with me, Frost.”

“I’m a patient guy.”

“I didn’t want to tell you what I’m doing until we knew each other a little better.”

“So what are you doing?” he asked.

“I’m writing a book. I’ve done magazine work ever since my memoir, but never another book. Now I’m ready.”

Frost frowned. “Let me guess.”

“Yes, it’s about the Golden Gate Murders.” She rushed on before he could object. “Please, don’t say anything yet. This isn’t a new project. I’ve been planning it for years. When I moved to San Francisco the first time, I was caught up in writing my memoir and then the book tour and the movie. I was hardly ever home. I barely had time to breathe. When things finally settled down, I needed to find a new project for myself. There had been so much drama in my life, and suddenly, it was gone. It left me empty. I liked doing magazine work, but I wanted something bigger. That was when the third victim was discovered. Natasha Lubin.”