“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.
“This is a terrible idea,” Don muttered under his breath as Grant let him in.
Paige said, “Who’s this?”
“Don McFee,” Don said, extending his hand. “You must be Paige.”
“What’s going on, Grant?”
Grant closed the door after them.
“Don is a friend of mine.”
Paige glared at Don.
His coat dripped on the hardwood floor.
“You better be here to take Grant home.”
Don looked at Grant and then at Paige. His head was shaved. Kind but intense eyes peered out from behind a pair of frameless lenses. He wore a calming presence that Grant could never reduce to its components or attribute to any particular quality. The guy just oozed Zen.
Don said, “I wonder if I might be of some help to you first?”
“Excuse me?”
Don looked her up and down. “I’ve been a substance abuse counselor for sixteen years.”
“Oh my God.”
“Please just hear me—”
“And what? Grant called you and told you I was using?” She looked at Grant. “Is that what you did? While you were in the bathroom?”
“Are you using, Paige?” Don asked.
“Get the fuck out of my house both of you.”
Grant said, “Paige, just talk to—”
She lunged forward, and with both hands, shoved Grant back against the door.
“I can’t believe I trusted you.”
“He can help. He’s helped me.”
“Did you hear me ask for help?”
“Paige—”
“Did you?”
“Your brother’s concerned,” Don said. “And I have to agree with him. You don’t look well.”
“Get out of my house.”
“Nobody’s leaving,” Grant said.
Paige turned away from them and moved quickly into the living room, stopping at an end table that rested against the couch.
She lifted a cordless phone off its base.
“Really want to give the cops your address?” Grant said.
Paige held the phone against her chest and shut her eyes.
When she opened them again, her body language had relaxed, as if some of the fight was flooding out of her.
She looked at Grant. “I appreciate your concern, okay? But there is nothing wrong with me, and I am asking both of you to please leave.”
Don stepped in. “Paige, I don’t think I need to tell you that you’re underweight, your complexion is unhealthy, and your hair is thin. My job isn’t to scare you, but your body can’t handle much more than it’s already been put through.”
“I’ve been clean for three years.”
Don moved slowly into the living room. “All the more reason to find out what’s going on. Wouldn’t you at least agree that your physical appearance is a cause for alarm?”
Paige stared at the floor, and for the first time since walking into this house, Grant sensed a change in her. It didn’t hold the power of an outright admission, but at least she wasn’t swinging back, trying to tear his throat out.
“How do you feel right in this moment, Paige?” Don asked.
She collapsed onto the couch. Let out a long sigh.
“Honestly? I’m tired,” she said. “I’m weak all the time.” Grant thought he registered emotion—coiled and charged—bleeding into her voice. “Even when I was strung out it never felt this bad.”
Grant hung back while Don continued toward her with the greatest care—as if approaching a wounded animal. Don unzipped his jacket and draped it over the back of a chair. He settled down on the couch beside Paige.
“Have you been to see a doctor?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“Are you afraid to go?”
Paige had been staring at her hands. Now she looked up at the ceiling.
“No.”
“Don’t you think it would help you to find out what the problem is?”
“It doesn’t matter. A doctor’s not what I need.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not sick the way you think I am.”
Grant exchanged a glance with Don, and then said, “Paige, if you say you’re clean then I believe you.”
“I’m not talking about drugs.”
“Then I’m lost,” Don said. “What’s making you sick?”
She shook her head.
When it was clear she wasn’t going to answer, Don said, “Paige, how about we just try the hospital? You don’t have to tell them anything. Just let them examine you. Take your vitals.”
Paige sighed. “I can’t.”
“You can. I’m parked right around the block. All you have to do is stand up and walk out that front door. Grant and I will do the rest.”
Paige finally looked up, tears shining in the firelight.
Her eyes darted to the door. “It’s not that easy.”
“I know it’s diff—”
“You don’t know. You have no idea.”
“Then tell us,” Grant said.
Her eyes flicked from Don to Grant and back. “I can’t leave the house.”
“Why?”
“I get sick if I try.”
“You look pretty sick right now.”
“This is nothing compared to what happens if I go out that door.”
“Have you ever had a panic attack, Paige?”
“Yes. That’s not what this is.”
“Then what is it?”
“You won’t believe me.”
“Paige.” Don touched her shoulder. “There is no judgment in this room.”
“I’m not worried about you judging me. I’m worried about you committing me.”
Grant said, “Whatever it is, I already believe you.”
She looked at Grant. “Don’t say that if you don’t mean it.”
“I mean it.”
“Something’s keeping me here.”
“Physically keeping you from leaving?” Grant asked.
She went silent, but her eyes were pleading, desperate. Grant came over and knelt on the floor beside her.
He said quietly, “Paige, is there something you can’t tell us?”
Those words ripped her apart.
She leaned over into the cushion, and everything seemed to release at once in a rush of tears.
Grant pushed a few loose strands of hair behind her ear.
“What is it, Paigy?” he whispered. “What’s doing this to you? Is it a client?”