She had e-mail.
Oh, God. She’d actually forgotten all about it.
Sitting in her in-box was a new message from one of those throwaway account services, with the ominous moniker of deadman. There was no subject line, and the message was just an address and a time of day—ten p.m.
McCallister came back, still glistening with drops from the shower, and saw from her expression that something was up.
She mutely spun her computer around and showed him. He leaned over the desk to read it. “Can your tech wizards trace that?” she asked.
“Probably not, but we’ll try it. That is the e-mail equivalent of a burner phone, and if he’s got any sense at all, he hid his IP address through a randomizer.” McCallister already had his cell out and was dialing.
“Don’t you need my account password?”
“Already have it,” he said, and got up to turn his back and talk to his resources.
Proof, once again, that there was nothing secret in her life anymore. Nothing sacred. She’d expected to feel some sense of burning betrayal, but instead, she felt … tired. And, weirdly, a little reassured.
McCallister stayed on the phone a while longer, and she contemplated opening up another set of drinks, but that seemed less like a necessary safety valve and more like a crutch, at this point. Bryn shut and locked the drawer, and looked at the clock.
It was coming up on six o‘clock.
Four hours to get the money and deliver it to the address—or else what? Lose their potential chance at the supplier.
If they did, Bryn had no doubt whatsoever that Irene Harte would pull the plug on the project, and her, with pleasure. It was that, as much as anything else, that made her step back from the comfort of the booze. I’m not giving you the excuse, she thought. Not you. You don’t get to kill me.
But it wouldn’t be Harte, she realized. When it came to the end, it would come from the man pacing the floor on the other side of her office, talking quietly into his cell phone. He’d be the one told to withhold her drug, reduce her to that decayed, rotting shell. She’d be eaten alive. She’d beg for release until eventually the last of the nanites faded and died….
Or until he dismembered her, out of sheer horrified mercy.
No. He promised. He promised me he wouldn’t let that happen. She closed her eyes and took deep breaths and tried to think of something, anything less painful. He’d promised, and he’d meant it. He wouldn’t let her linger on and rot.
McCallister finished the call. “I have a car and driver coming, and I’m on the way to pick up the money,” he said. “Joe is five minutes out. Stay here, and he’ll take you home. I’ll come by here at eight thirty to pick you up for the rendezvous.”
She nodded. “Thank you.”
“For what?” he asked, and she held his eyes until she saw that he knew. “I meant what I said, Bryn. I won’t let that happen.”
“I know,” she said. “Thank you.” She stood up and hugged him. It was an impulse, and she didn’t mean anything by it except gratitude, until she was in his arms, and then … then it was something else entirely. “Tell me you didn’t sleep with her,” she whispered, very quietly.
He didn’t ask what she was talking about. “I didn’t,” he said, and something brushed her forehead, very gently. It might have been a kiss. “Stay safe.”
And then he was gone.
Bryn arrived home at six thirty, feeling exhausted and not up for family drama of any kind. Luckily, she didn’t get any.
The apartment was spotlessly clean, Mr. French was happy to see her, and the air smelled like rich Italian food.
“Hey, sweetie!” Annie said brightly from the kitchen. “Hope you’re hungry. I think I cooked enough pasta for the complex!”
I can’t do this. Bryn dropped onto the sofa and covered her face with her hands. In a few seconds, she felt Annie’s weight settle in next to her, and her sister’s arm went around her shoulders. She didn’t look up.
“Hey,” Annie said. “Hey, what did I say? You don’t like Italian anymore?”
“It’s just …” For an extremely unsettling second, Bryn thought the dam might just collapse inside her. If she said anything, she’d say everything, everything that she’d promised to keep secret. And that would unburden her, but doom her sister. McCallister’s people were always listening, and someone was always listening to them. “It was a bad day. Really bad.”
“Sorry, honey. Hey, does it have anything to do with the hottie who was here with you before?”
“No! Why would you even assume that?” Bryn looked at her sister finally. Annie cocked an eyebrow and shrugged. “It’s not all about my love life. Or lack of one.”
“I’m just saying, he’s hot.”
“What about married did you not understand?”
“There’s married and married, in my expert opinion.”
“Expert?”
“Honey, I work in a bar. I am an expert.”
That was … a good point. Bryn let it pass. “It’s not about Joe, and it had nothing to do with … It was work. Bad day at work.”
“Oh. So … it was disgusting, right?”
“Very.”
“I think I’d rather talk about your lack of a love life. Seriously, there isn’t anybody you’re interested in? Come on, Bryn. Humor me.”
“Nobody,” she said, but then she sighed and shook her head. “He doesn’t care about me. Not that way.”
“Is he male?”
“Obviously.”
“Is he straight?”
“As far as I know.”
“Then he cares, sweetie. You don’t have any idea how sexy you are, do you?”
Bryn laughed, and it sounded a little wild, a little despairing. “I am so very far from sexy right now, Annie. And how did we get on this subject again?”
“Because you wouldn’t discuss dinner?”
“Well, I’ll discuss it now. I don’t have much time, though. I’m sorry, but I have to go out tonight. An appointment. I need to be there by eight thirty.”
“Cool.” Annie squeezed her and let go. “We can go out tomorrow night. I made bruschetta and pasta primavera; I walked over to the store and stocked your fridge. You’ll love it.”
And Bryn did. For the first time in a long time—since before that awful moment when her whole life had ended and restarted—she tasted food, really tasted it. Crisp, nutty bread, fresh chopped tomato, basil, garlic, balsamic vinegar, oil … and the pasta, perfectly cooked al dente. Annie offered wine, but Bryn refused, on the grounds of driving. They talked. They laughed. They mocked each other. They did dishes and splashed each other, half out of spite, half out of joy.
Sisters.
Bryn felt the darkness and horror slip away, just for a while.
It all passed in far too short a time. By eight, they were sitting on the couch again, and Annie was flipping channels on Bryn’s TV. “What time do you think you’ll be back?” she asked. She flipped her hair back over her shoulders. She’d showered, and her hair had fallen into golden brown ringlets, perfectly shaped. When Bryn was ten and Annie was eight, Bryn had given her sister a deliberately awful haircut with a pair of safety scissors out of sheer envy—and in truth, she still hadn’t quite gotten over coveting those curls.
“Why? You going to wait up?”
“Are you going out on a date?”
“I wish. No.”
“Are you going to be draining body fluids out of some poor dead person?”
“No, and God, you are morbid.”
“Me? You’re the one with the job in the death business.” Annie made air quotes around it. “I’m sorry, and I don’t want to judge, but it just seems really weird to me.”
“It’s not weird. It’s …” Bryn remembered Riley’s words, back in the prep room. “It’s something sacred, in a way. We’re the last people to touch someone in this world, and that’s important. We’re all going there, in the end. Wouldn’t you like there to be someone there to care for you?”