Killer Move - Michael Marshall [122]
Finally I saw her, slumped over a table right in the middle. She was in work clothes—the outfit she’d been wearing to go into the office yesterday, of course, before the meeting—but looked like she’d put them on in the dark. Her face was very pale. Her hair was lank. She looked like an old woman, far from home.
I scooted between the tables to her, leaned down, and put my hand gently on her shoulder.
“Honey, let’s go.”
She swung her head up, took a second to recognize me. Close up she looked far too thin.
“Hey,” she said, and smiled. Her voice was weak, despite the warmth in it. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Me too.”
“I’m sorry about this. Just thought it was a good idea, you know?”
“Yeah, but it’s not. We need to go.”
She blinked at me, then swung her head robotically to the side. I followed her gaze and saw Nick coming from the counter, a cup in each hand. He saw me, too.
“Don’t know whether I can drink a coffee, in fact,” Steph said. “Still feel sick.”
“That’s right, honey. Your stomach’s messed up. Coffee is a bad idea right now. Come on. Let’s leave.”
Nick was quick getting over, but he stayed in character all the way. He looked cowed, as if he knew he was in the wrong but was determined to make things right. He was diffident. He looked exactly as he should.
He started talking from ten feet away. “Hey,” he said. Muted, cautious. Concerned.
“So which is it?” I asked. “Are you just an actor, or are you actually one of them?”
Nick looked at me warily. “What?”
“Don’t bother pretending. I know what’s going on. So which is it? Player or filler? Emily never mentioned you. So I’m guessing you’re one of them.”
“One of who?”
Steph looked more confused than ever. “Bill, what are you talking about? Who’s Emily?”
“Steph, seriously—we’re going. We’re leaving this hospital right now.”
“Leaving the hospital?” Nick said. “You’re not serious? Ste—Your wife is sick, sir.”
“I’m aware of that. And you and I both know how and why it happened, too.”
“I really don’t, sir,” Nick said, with maddening calm. “I brought the wine bottle in, like you asked. I . . . I really think that the hospital is the place for her to be right now.”
“Is that so? I heard you tried to make my wife leave here just a few minutes ago.”
“Uh, no,” he said, looking confused. “I just suggested we should go to the outside seating, so she could get some fresh air.”
“Bullshit.”
“Mr. Moore, I understand you’re going to have a problem with me, in the, uh, light of things, and probably I should go, leave you guys to it now you’re here, but her health is the priority, right?”
“We’re leaving now,” I said, trying to ignore him, gripping Steph’s arm in my hand, fairly gently.
A nearby table had started taking an interest—two middle-aged women and a man—and were making no bones about staring. I knew how it must look. A woman who really did look like the hospital was the only sensible place for her. A neat young man in pressed chinos and a spotless shirt, speaking calmly, talking sense. A wild-eyed older guy, in stained trousers and an old sweatshirt, last night’s alcohol in a rank fog around him—and who was possibly also broadcasting on some psychic level the effects of having just seen two people shot to death near a swimming pool full of blood.
“Honey, please, let’s just go.”
Steph wouldn’t get up. Either she was too weak or confused, or she’d got it fixed in her head that the situation with Nick needed to be resolved, and was brooking no deviation until that was done. She’d always been like that, since college, since childhood, most likely. She wanted things sorted out. Squared away. That’s a good quality in a partner,