Duncan slid out of the booth, wrapped his arms around her and spoke into her ear just loud enough for Phin to hear. "Dump him. I'll buy you Fiji."
She had a big, strong laugh, and let it rip. "Can I just keep him to play with when you're busy?"
"Give me back my wife."
"Not done with her." Taking his time with it, Duncan gave her a long, dramatic kiss. "That'll hold me. Thanks for coming, Loo."
"Thought you were in court."
"I was." She sat next to Phin, nuzzled her lips to his. "Prosecution asked for a recess. I've got them on the ropes. Now, which of you handsome men is going to buy me a martini?"
"Being shaken even as we speak. One minute. Here's what we'll offer the squirrel and here's where we top off." Duncan pushed the napkin over to Phin. "Okay?"
Phin glanced at the figures, shrugged. "It's your money."
"Yeah. Isn't that a kick in the ass?" Duncan picked up his beer. He knew Phin and Loo would be holding hands under the table. They had the thing, the it, whatever that it was that locked people together and kept them damn happy about it.
"Y'all want something more than nachos?" Duncan asked them.
"Just that martini. As our gorgeous and brilliant offspring is spending the night with her cousin, I'm going to have this fine-looking man take me out to dinner."
"Are you?"
"I am, but not until I've had that drink and am finished playing footsie with my lover here." Loo winked at Duncan. "So, baby doll, what can I do for you?"
Duncan said nothing for a moment, then grinned. "Sorry, my mind went in all sorts of interesting directions." He listened to that terrific laugh of hers again. "It's about something that happened to a friend of mine today, and my curiosity over what gets done to the guy who did it when he gets caught."
"Criminal or civil?"
"It's pretty fucking criminal."
Loo raised her eyebrows at the tone, then accepted the martini she was served. She took the first, slow sip. "Should this individual be charged and indicted, I take it you'd object if I or my firm represent him."
"I can't tell you what to do, but I figured you'd know the ins and outs of what he might try to pull, legally, when they get him."
"Not if, but when." She broke off a minute corner of a chip. "Okay, tell me what this man allegedly did."
"Before I tell you what he did, I'd better tell you, he's a cop."
"Oh. Well. Shit." Loo blew out a breath, drank again. "Tell me."
Interesting. From his seat at the bar, he nursed a beer, ate some cheese fries and pretended to be interested in the reports on March Madness that dominated the near screen.
He had a perfect view of the booth where Phoebe's screw-buddy sat with the duded-up black couple. Interesting, damn interesting-and fortunate that he himself had been watching the house on Jones when the fancy car pulled up.
Phoebe hadn't been looking so good.
He had to smother a laugh he knew might draw attention his way. No sir, the redheaded bitch hadn't been looking her best.
She was going to be looking worse before it was over. But for now, he'd take a little time, a little trouble, to find who Mr. Fancy Car and his friends were.
You never knew who might be useful.
Chapter 9
With one ear cocked toward Phoebe's room, Essie carefully folded the white-on-white bedspread with its stylized pattern of lovebirds. The intricate stitching had kept her mind calm, as it tended to.
She often thought that being productive-and creative with it, if she could brag a bit-held a firm rein on her mind and refused to allow it to wander into those places where panic waited.
It was good work, she could think that, and the bride who received it as a wedding gift would have something unique and special, something that could be passed on for generations.
She arranged the dark silver tissue. Even that, the fussing with the finished product, the meticulous packaging of it, helped keep her hands busy and her mind steady.
Because she didn't want to be afraid every time Phoebe went out of the house, didn't want to whittle her family's world down to walls, as she'd whittled her own. She couldn't allow herself to let that fear in, to let it take over. It snuck up, she knew, inch by inch, stealing little spaces, little movements.
First it might set your heart thumping, it might shut your lungs down in the grocery store, right there in Produce while you're surrounded by tomatoes and snap beans and romaine lettuce with Muzak playing "Moon River" until you want to scream.
Until you had to run, just leave your cart there, half full of groceries, and run.
It might be the dry cleaner's next, or the bank where the teller knew you by name and always asked about your children. It might sneak up then, dropping rock after rock after rock on your chest until you were buried alive.
Your ears ringing, the sweat pouring.
You let it win all those little spaces, all those little movements, until it had them all. Until it owned everything outside the walls.
She could still go out on the terraces, into the courtyard, but that was getting harder and harder. If it wasn't for Carly, Essie didn't think she could push herself even that far. The day was coming, she could feel it sliding closer, when she wouldn't be able to sit on the veranda and read a book with her precious little girl.
And who was to say she was wrong? Essie thought as she put the pretty oval sticker with her initials on the folded tissue to close it in place.
Terrible things happened in the world outside the walls. Hard, frightening and terrible things happened every minute of every day, on the streets and the sidewalks, at the market and the dry cleaner's.
Part of her wanted to pull her family inside those walls, lock the doors, bar the windows. Inside, she wished she could keep them inside, where everyone would be safe, where nothing terrible could happen to any of them, ever.
And she knew that was her illness whispering, trying to sneak in a little closer.
She lay the card that detailed instructions for the care of the lovebird spread, then closed the bright silver box.
While she gift-wrapped the box as the customer had ordered, she was calmer. Her gaze strayed to the windows now and then, but that was just a check, just a peek at what might be out there. She was pleased it was raining. She loved rainy days when it seemed so cozy and snug and right to be inside the house, all tucked in like the lovebirds in the silver box.
By the time she had the gift cushioned in its shipping box, sealed and labeled, she was humming.
She carried it out, pausing to peek into Phoebe's room, and smiling when she saw her baby girl sleeping. Sleep and rest and quiet, that's what her baby needed to heal. When she woke from her nap, Essie decided she'd bring Phoebe up a tea tray, a nice little snack, and sit with her the way she had so many years ago when her daughter had been down with a cold or a touch of flu.
She was halfway down the steps with the big box when the doorbell rang. The jolt shot through her like a bullet, driving her right down, legs folding, heart slamming, to sit on the steps with her arms wrapped around the box as if it would shield her.
And she could have wept, could have dropped her head down on the box and wept at the instant and uncontrollable terror.
The door was locked, and could stay locked if she needed it to. No one in, no one out. All the pretty birds inside the silver box.
How could she explain to anyone, anyone, the grip of the sudden, strangling fear, the way it set the little white scar on her cheek throbbing like a fresh wound? But the bell would ring again if she didn't answer-hear that, it's ringing again. It would wake Phoebe, and she needed to sleep.
Who was going to protect her baby if she ran away and hid?
So she was not going to cower on the steps; she was not going to allow herself to fear opening the front door, even if she was unable to walk out of it.
She got up, made herself walk to the door, though she did continue to clutch the box in front of her. And the relief made her feel foolish, and a little ashamed, when she saw Duncan on the other side.