Through the window, Sophie watched the headlights of what looked like a Crown Vic whip into the parking space beside the black van.
“What do you want me to do with this file, Sophie?”
She opened her purse, dug out her wallet, threw a ten spot on the table.
“Where are you right now, Stu?”
“Cafe Vita in The Hill.”
She slid out of the booth.
“I’ll meet you there in twenty,” she said.
She met Dobbs at the entrance.
“Outside, Art.”
They stood in the drizzle.
“What’s the word, Sophie?”
Art didn’t exactly look like a law enforcement badass with his receding hairline and burgeoning paunch, but the threadbare JCPenney suit belied a damn good shot and one of the best detectives Sophie had ever worked with.
“Talbert, Seymour, and a John Doe are seated at one of the booths by the window. Stay on them.”
“You’re leaving?”
“I just got a call about Grant.”
“I thought he was sick.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“He in trouble?”
“I don’t know yet. I’ll call you.”
“I had a reservation at Canlis tonight for me and the wife.”
Sophie was already moving across the sidewalk toward her TrailBlazer.
“I owe you one,” she said over her shoulder.
“Yeah you do.”
“Text me when they move. I’ll be in the city.”
Chapter 24
Grant stumbled over to the closet, slipped inside, and pulled the door closed after him.
He sat on the floor.
Drew his knees into his chest.
Buried his head in his hands.
The pain was operatic—audible through the silence like a throbbing timpani drum. He wondered how Paige had held out for three days by herself. In the years they’d been estranged, the memory of his little sister had been replaced by the image of the addict, the fuck-up, and now, the prostitute. It was easy to forget the little girl who would quietly stroke his hair when the tears he had fought back during the day finally arrived in the middle of the night. Those muffled sobs he’d tried to stifle with a pillow. She was stronger than he would ever be.
Now, with his head splitting apart in the darkness, he wished—as he had so many times before—that he could find some of her strength in himself. But he had never been the brave one.
Grant heard the front door close, followed by low voices in the foyer. Reaching up, he gently twisted the knob and nudged the closet door open a quarter of an inch.
He caught a twinkle of candlelight through the crack, and then Paige’s voice.
“I’m so glad you came, Steve.”
“What’s with all the candles?”
“You don’t like them?”
“I can’t tell if it’s romantic or if you’re about to subject me to some Satanic ritual sacrifice.”
Paige laughed, but Grant could tell it wasn’t the genuine article—too quick, too high, definitely forced.
“The boring truth,” she said, “is that the power went out.”
“Bummer.”
Their voices seemed to occupy the same airspace. Grant imagined her arms wrapped around the man’s neck.
“I’m glad you called,” the man said. “Thought you might have forgotten about me.”
“Never.”
Silence, and then the phlegmy slurp of kissing.
Grant grimaced.
“You feeling all right?” the man asked. “You look tired.”
“Nothing you can’t fix. Get us a drink?”
“Please.”
Footsteps plodded toward the closet, and in the soft candlelight, Grant watched his sister approach the wet bar.
For a split second, her eyes shot to the crack between door and doorframe.
“Power’s been out since last night,” she said, “so no rocks.” She grabbed a half-empty bottle.
I could use a hit of that right about now.
“Neat’s the only way I drink,” the man said as he emerged from the shadows and slid his arms around Paige’s waist from behind. “I thought you’d remember that.”
Steve wasn’t at all what he had expected. He’d been prepared for another Jude—tall, perfect hair, chiseled everything. But Steve was shorter than Paige. As he sidled up behind her, the profile of his face met the slope of her neck like a puzzle piece, the top of his head stopping a full four inches below her own. He was thirty-five or forty pounds overweight and the dome of his hairless skull shone like polished marble in the candlelight. Physically at least, Steve was a completely unremarkable specimen. Grant couldn’t decide if it made him feel better or worse to know that not all of Paige’s clients were demigods.
Paige poured two glasses of scotch and turned to Steve.
“Should we take this upstairs?” she asked.
“You read my mind.”
Grant listened to their footsteps trail away into the foyer.
The stairs creaked as they climbed.
Only when they’d reached the second floor did Grant ease the closet door open and step out.
The ceiling creaked above him.
He pictured Steve and Paige heading down the hall toward her bedroom.
Their footfalls stopped. The bedroom door groaned open.
As if on cue, his ears popped—like rolling down the windows in a speeding car.
Grant exhaled.
He strained to listen, but there was nothing else to hear.
Moving around to the wet bar, Grant lifted the best thing he saw—a twenty-five year Highland Park—and poured into a rocks glass.
Shot it.
The whiskey dumping into his empty stomach like a fistful of lava.
He poured another, swirled it.
No plans of stopping until the world lost its hard edge.
Grant raised the glass in the air before him.
“A toast,” he said, “to shit.”
There was a knock at the front door.
For a moment, he wrote it off as a phantom sound. A glitch in his fracturing mind. He waited for confirmation, willing the silence to continue.
Another knock, this time harder.
He set the glass on the bar and made his way into the foyer, careful to stay clear of the windows that faced the street.
Without power, the intercom and camera were useless.
He pressed up against the door, eye to the peephole.
Sophie stared back at him.
He blinked.
Still there.
He clawed his way through the pain and tried to think.
What are you doing here?
What are you doing here?
What are you—
Stu.
That was the only conceivable way. The PI had tried to call at six p.m. like Grant had insisted . But his phone was dead. So naturally, Stu called his partner.
A flare of heat rushed through his face—anger at himself. At his shortsighted plan. He should’ve seen this possible outcome a mile away. You always plan for the worst case scenario. Should’ve told Stu this research was for something on the side. Something no other person in the world—least of all his partner—needed to know about.
Goddamnit.
Sophie pounded on the door again.
Grant played the scene forward.
Open it?
What would he possibly say to her? Maybe on his best day—when a world-class migraine hadn’t liquefied his brain and he actually had time to prepare—maybe then he’d have a chance at talking his way out of this. At assuaging whatever concerns she had and convincing her to leave without suspicion. But not in his current condition. Sophie would see through the lies before they even left his mouth. Hell, all she’d have to do was take one look at his sunken eyes and know he’d gotten himself into something bad.
So wait her out.
She knocked again, and he saw her gauzy silhouette lean into the curtained window frame to the right of the door. He knew she couldn’t see inside, but still he didn’t dare move from his spot behind the door.
Sure this is the right play? To just let her leave and bring back a search warrant?