That woke a very faint smile. “Partly.”
“All right. Can I bring anything?”
“Anything but your sister,” he said. It sounded heartfelt, and she found herself smiling.
“Wow. You sound as if you’d actually met her.”
“I wouldn’t mind meeting her, except that you already have enough to explain. It would take a lot more to produce a boyfriend with a Bruce Wayne mansion that she’s never heard of before. I’m using hypotheticals, of course.”
“The mansion is hardly hypothetical.”
“I was speaking of the boyfriend part. About our relationship.”
“I wasn’t aware you thought we actually had one.”
That cued him to look away again. “Of course we do. I’m your handler.”
“That doesn’t sound as sexy as it ought to.”
He let out a snort that was remarkably like her dog’s, and the brakes eased the taxi to a stop. “You’re home.”
Bryn made no real effort to get out, other than putting her hand on the handle. She said, “You could have come in to save Joe. You didn’t. I know you had your reasons, but it makes me wonder: what if it’s me next time? You said you wouldn’t let me suffer. I need to count on that.”
“You can,” he said. “Always.”
Bryn stepped out and watched the taxi glide away. Her phone vibrated again, and she let out a tired sigh, jammed her fists in the pockets of her hoodie, and went upstairs to explain things to Annalie.
It didn’t go well.
Chapter 10
She just didn’t have the energy, after the awful night, to deal with Annalie’s questions—valid though they might have been. Bryn abandoned the field, showered, dressed, and stormed off to work with new (if adrenaline-fueled) energy. That lasted through the first consultation with a newly bereaved husband; his wife had celebrated her seventy-fifth birthday and passed away two weeks later of a stroke. He was stoic, but fragile, and Bryn guided him through it with the sad knowledge that he’d probably be a client soon; she could see the resignation in his eyes. He’d lost everything, and he was giving up. Maybe he’d come out of it, but at his age, she doubted it.
After he was gone, and she had time to think, she realized that her head was throbbing and her throat was dry. A visit to the coffee machine helped. Lucy tried to tell her about Joe’s shooting, but Bryn was too tired to keep up a pretense of surprise. Besides, with Lucy’s connections, she’d find out soon enough that Bryn had been there on the scene.
“I was with him,” Bryn said, sipping her coffee. Lucy stopped typing on her computer keyboard and looked up with widened eyes. “He was helping me out, and he got shot for his trouble. I need to go see his wife and kids.”
“I think they’re all at the hospital,” Lucy said. “I was told so, anyway. The nurses say he’s not in any danger, thank the Lord. Shot. My God. And you were right there?”
“Yes,” Bryn said. “I was right there.”
“But what were you—” Lucy checked herself and firmly closed her mouth. “You know what? That’s none of my business, none at all. I’m just happy you’re all right.”
She wasn’t all right, on so many levels, but Bryn just nodded and went back to her office. She could feel Lucy’s curious stare on her back. By the end of the day, everybody—including Riley Block, in her prep room inner sanctum—was going to have the unshakable opinion that she’d been screwing Joe Fideli.
God.
When her phone rang, it was almost a relief. It wasn’t her private line, just the main switchboard, so she answered with the standard greeting—or tried to.
Annalie interrupted her. “We need to talk about what happened, Bryn!”
“No, trust me. We really don’t.”
“You were arrested! You don’t think Mom’s going to hear about that?”
“Only if you tell her.”
“I wouldn’t!” Annie sounded less than convincing, though. “Look, clearly this is not a good time for you to have me hanging around whatever … stuff … you’re into….”
“God, Annie, do you think I’m a drug dealer?” Because that would be gruesomely ironic, all things considered.
Annie chose her words carefully. “I think you may have some kind of a problem you don’t want to acknowledge,” she said. “I mean, damn, you’re working with dead people; it’s no wonder you’d want … some kind of—”
“Oh, so I’m not a drug dealer, just a junkie.”
“I’m not saying that!” Annie took a deep breath. “Okay, I’m taking the next flight back home,” she said. “I’ll leave your key with the apartment manager. And I shredded and flushed your apartment codes. Anything else you want me to do?”
“Walk Mr. French before you go running home to tell Mom what a loser I am,” Bryn said.
“Bryn, c‘mon, you were arrested. Many people would consider that a wake-up call!”
“I was innocent.”
“You were off skulking around in the dark with a married man and you almost got shot. I don’t know what you think you’re doing, Bryn, but whatever it is, it’s nuts. You’re nuts. I always said you were when you went running off to join the army, but now—”
“Says the girl who can’t add well enough to avoid overdrafts,” Bryn snapped. “Don’t hit me up for money anymore. Go crying to Mom; tell her I’m not her golden girl anymore. Maybe you’ll get the job.”
“Maybe I will!”
“Do it!” Bryn slammed the phone down and concentrated on controlling her breathing. Damn, no one could push buttons like family, especially bratty little sisters. How dared Annie get holier-than-thou with her, especially when the holier-than had to be bailed out of trouble six months out of twelve?
The downside is that I have to make my own dinner, Bryn thought, and almost laughed, but she was afraid it would sound too much like a sob. She felt sick and feverish, and was deathly afraid there was something wrong with her. Nanite wrong. You have another shot coming up, she reminded herself. Don’t get panicky.
She drank three glasses of water, signed papers, wrote checks, and finally it was twelve thirty. She told Lucy where she was going, and headed for La Scala Ristorante.
“You know,” Bryn said as the needle pushed into her arm, “my sister thinks I’m a junkie, and she’d really think it if she could see me now. Shooting up in a bathroom. A men’s bathroom, at that.” She closed her eyes and focused on the warm strength of McCallister’s fingers where his left hand gripped her, holding her shoulder still. The hot surge of the shot almost took her focus away, but she held on and didn’t flinch.
McCallister put the used syringe back in the tube and pocketed it. “You’re done,” he said, as she pulled her shirtsleeve down. “Have a nice lunch.”
“Wait—”
“I can‘t, Bryn.” But he hesitated, with one hand on the latch of the cramped bathroom stall. There was barely room for the two of them and the discolored curve of the toilet seat. “What?”
“I just wanted to ask …” She fell silent as the hinges on the bathroom door creaked. They stared at each other, pressed intimately close, as the unknown man outside unzipped his pants, grunted, and started splashing the urinal cake. Bryn covered her mouth with her hand, afraid that for some insane reason she was about to laugh. Even McCallister couldn’t suppress a smile.
Especially when the man started to sing off-key along with the Italian music piped in over the bathroom speakers. Dear God, he was awful.
McCallister put his lips very close to her ear and whispered, “I think he’s got a future on American Idol. The wrong kind.”
She shook with the silent force of her laughter, and bit her lip until tears threatened. Part of it was the sheer craziness of being so tired and emotionally stretched. The man finally flushed, washed, and the door thumped shut behind him.
Bryn found herself leaning against McCallister, eyes closed. She’d relaxed sometime in the last few seconds. I trust him, she thought, and hated herself for it.