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He reminds me of a vengeful god in one of those ancient paintings that hang in the Met. Current mood: destroy the earth. But this god wears a suit instead of flowing robes. Vengeful god 2.0: the hot-but-scary Wall Street edition—hard, deadly, and dressed to kill it in the boardroom.
It seems impossible that this man was ever that lost little boy in the photo on Bernadette’s mantel.
He sets a disposable cup on a table next to a small stack of empty cups over in the corner. It’s here that I notice there are several iThings there next to a man’s cashmere coat slung over the arm.
So he’s been here. For a while.
He turns back to me. “Smuckers says to follow the light? He says to sing Over the Rainbow? A brother named Licky Lickardo on the other side? Care to explain any of that?”
Definitely not, I think.
I turn to Bernadette, like maybe she might care to explain for me, but her eyes are closed. Is she faking sleeping? That would be so Bernadette. “Bernadette,” I say. “Hey, tell your son—”
My words die as he nears, looming over her on the other side of her bed. He gazes down at her with an expression I can’t read.
I wait, cowering in my sensible pumps.
“Was she…awake?”
“Well, yeah,” I whisper.
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah.”
He’s silent for a long time, still with that unreadable expression, but a small dent forms between his brows, like he’s working something out in his mind—something troubling or distressing. It’s here I see a flash of that boy in the photo.
“She wanted to see Smuckers,” I explain. “I was just…trying to help.”
When he looks up at me a second later, the boy is gone. Maybe the whole thing was an illusion. “Help is an odd term for trying to convince a dying woman you’re communicating with her dog,” he bites out. “Giving her bizarre messages from her dog.” He pulls out his phone. “Maybe you can explain your help to the police.”
My heart pounds. Communicating with her dog, bizarre messages from her dog—that is what I was doing!
“She just wanted to see Smuckers,” I protest.
He gives me a disgusted look. “And you’re happy to accommodate. If there’s something in it for you.”
I raise myself up straight as possible because I wasn’t doing anything wrong.
I wasn’t doing anything wrong.
“She likes to interact with Smuckers.” I swallow. “She doesn’t want to be alone.”
“Harry,” he says, strolling out into the hall and speaking in soft tones. Is Harry the police?
“Bernadette.” I touch her hand. “I have to go, Bernadette.”
She stirs. Did she even hear?
The son returns a moment later. “They’re coming.” His steely glare twists through my belly like a corkscrew.
I won’t let him cow me. Years ago I swore I’d never let a rich asshole scare me or bully me ever again—not ever again.
So I glare right back.
It comes to me at this point that there’s something oddly familiar about him. He’s got that classic Hollywood-leading-man look—at least, if your Hollywood movie was about a darkly mesmerizing titan of industry. If your movie was about a friendly cowpoke this guy probably wouldn’t work out, unless you wanted him to turn dangerous at the end and take over the whole town.
“Good,” I say. “Let them come.” I don’t mean it. The last thing I need is the cops.
