“I am.”
“And how’s that going?”
“Fine.”
“Yeah? Some interesting cases?”
“Always.”
“So you like what you do.”
“I love it. Do you?”
“Do I love what you do?”
“You know what I mean.”
“I’m making fat bank, Grant.”
“So I hear.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I had to threaten Eric to get a referral.”
“Not cool.”
“He made it sound like you didn’t see guys like me.”
“Like you?”
“Low net-worth individuals.”
“Wait. You’re upset I won’t just fuck anyone who slides me a couple of hundreds?”
She had a point there.
“How about a tour of the place?” Grant asked. “Love to see what you’ve done with the upstairs.”
Her eyes went wide; her breathing accelerated.
“No.”
“Why?”
“No.” She practically yelled it the second time, leaning toward him across the island, her eyes narrowing, teeth grinding together, the ugly monstrous addict rearing its head.
“Fine. Sorry I asked.”
Grant got up and walked over to the Bose—Miles Davis noodling away on the trumpet.
“Bitches Brew? Not his most popular but as good as anything he ever did. I love this part.” He turned the volume up a few decibels. “Where’s your bathroom?”
Paige pointed to the door at the end of the kitchen.
Chapter 8
Grant sat down on the edge of the bathtub.
Fished the phone out of his pocket and scrolled through the contact list.
Don McFee.
One of the first friends Grant had made after leaving the academy. One of the few who’d stuck around during those dark days after Paige disappeared in Phoenix and he’d been hell-bent on death by escorts and scotch.
Don answered on the fifth ring, a sleep-drawl in his voice.
“I wake you?” Grant asked, speaking low into the phone.
“It’s all right.”
“I’m going to owe you huge for this one.”
“Then I guess I’ll keep the tab running.”
“I’m at my sister’s place in Queen Anne. Twenty-two Crockett Street. It’s not far from your house.”
“You’re with Paige?”
“Long story. She’s not looking so hot right now. I’ve never seen her so thin. She’s wasting away.”
“Grant, we’ve been through this. You can’t fix her.”
“This isn’t like the other times. She looks like a chemo patient.”
“Let me come pick you up. We’ll get some coffee and talk about it.”
“I’m not leaving my little sister like this.”
“You want me to show up uninvited at ten o’clock so I can tell her she’s an addict? I love you, man, but that road leads nowhere. You want to do another intervention, fine, but let’s do it the right way.”
“I’m not asking you as a counselor.”
“Is her life in imminent danger?”
“No.”
“Then as your friend, I’m telling you this isn’t what she needs. An ambush will only work against you.”
“Did I mention she’s a prostitute? I haven’t seen her in five years, and now she’s fucking guys for cash.”
“Christ. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t make me do this on my own, Don.”
There was a long pause.
A blizzard of trumpet notes escalated into a wail that sustained itself for so long Grant suddenly felt the need for a deep breath.
“Have you been drinking tonight, Grant?”
“Little bit.”
“Let me come get you.”
“Don’t worry about it. Sorry to wake you.”
Grant ended the call.
He needed a new plan.
The light above the sink flickered several times.
Went out.
Miles Davis gone silent.
Grant struggled onto his feet.
“Paige?”
The shower cut on, the cramped little bathroom filling with the noise of moving water as the pitch-black disorientation set in.
Where was the door again?
He stumbled forward into a towel rack as the toilet flushed of its own volition.
In a span of seconds, he lost all perception of space.
Need to get out of here.
He moved in another direction and ran into the sink.
The faucet turned on.
It felt like the room was closing in on him, the walls contracting, the ceiling pressing down, a completely illogical panic building, accompanied by a shortness of breath.
And then the lights kicked on.
He was staring at himself in the mirror and his chest was heaving and all that running water had silenced itself so quickly he wondered if he’d imagined the noise.
Chapter 9
Paige was at the sink when Grant emerged.
He walked over and grabbed a towel off the door to the Sub-Zero fridge.
“You lose power out here too?” Grant asked.
“Yeah. Happens occasionally. Old house, comes with the territory I guess.”
“You should get that checked. You’d be surprised how many old houses in the city burn down every month because the wiring is for shit.”
The left sink brimmed with dishes that had just begun to smell.
They fell into a familiar pattern—Paige washing, Grant drying.
Steam peeled off the surface of the murky dishwater and fogged the window behind the sink.
It felt good to have his hands doing something, and the strangeness he’d encountered in the bathroom was fading away like the memory of a dream.
As his sister handed him a plate, he said, “Can I be honest with you?”
“I hope so.”
“I’m worried about you.”
“You should have that put on a T-shirt.”
“You don’t look well, Paige.”
“Ouch.” She handed him the cast iron skillet. “Oil this for me.”
Grant grabbed a bottle of olive oil from the windowsill and sprinkled a few drops across the surface. Then he tore off a paper towel and began to massage it into the iron.
“I swear I didn’t come over to fix things, but I can’t ignore it either.”
Paige let a plate slide into the dishwater and turned to him.
“And here I was just beginning to think that maybe this was the start of something different. Good job. You really took my guard down.”
“You look terrible, Paige. You’re pale, thin, weak. You can barely walk.”
“I’m tired.”
“Are you eating?”
“Did you just see me eat?”
“Then what’s going on?”
Paige braced herself against the counter and stared at the wall. Grant recognized that stony expression. Total system failure. Whenever Paige felt cornered, she went on lockdown, and there was no getting back in.
The chime of the doorbell cut through the jazz, snapping Paige back into the moment.
She went over to the Bose, muted the speakers, and headed up the hallway into the foyer.
Grant hung back.
A client dropping by?
Paige said, “Can I help you?”
A man’s voice crackled over the intercom. “I’m looking for Grant Moreton.”
“Just a minute.”
Paige turned and stared down the corridor. Even in the lowlight, he could see the rage in her eyes.
“Someone’s here for you,” she said.
He started down the hall.
“How would anyone know you’re here?”
Grant passed the staircase and moved into the foyer.
“No idea.”
Keep digging that grave.
“Is this another cop?” she asked.
“Of course not.”
Grant slid the chains out of their guards and unlocked the multiple deadbolts.
“Don’t just open it for him,” Paige said, but he was already turning the doorknob.
Don McFee stood on the front porch, rain pouring behind him, pooling in the street, in the small square of grass that constituted the front yard.
The man’s face was half-shadowed under the hood of his Barbour coat, the jacket’s oiled surface beaded with rainwater.