Look Again - Lisa Scottoline [112]
“I say the Four Seasons,” Marcelo said, but Ron frowned.
“Don’t even think about it, either of you. Cusack told me if you try to see Will, they’ll take out a restraining order.”
Marcelo frowned. “These people, they’re cruel beyond belief.”
“There it is.” Ron shrugged. “Cusack said, and I believe him, that this guy is just trying to protect his kid.”
“From me?”
“Yes.”
Ellen tried to process it. “I really can’t call Will?”
“No. Their child therapist said it would be confusing for him and prevent his bonding with his father again.”
“An expert said that?”
“You can find an expert to say anything.”
“Then we should find our own expert.”
Ron shook his head. “No, there’s no trial here, and no judge. They won. They win. On the good-news front, I asked if they’d give you an update on his condition, physical and emotional, next week, and they agreed.”
“Big of them.” Ellen felt anger flare up, muted by the drug.
“We’ll take what we can get and go from there.”
“They need to know his medical history. They didn’t even know that. I have his records.”
“I’m sure we can send it to them or his pediatrician.”
Ellen slumped back into the pillow, trying not to hit somebody. Or cry. Or scream. Or turn back time, to the day she read that awful white card in the mail.
“Try to rest, Ellen. You know what Shakespeare says. ‘Sleep knits up the ravell’d sleave of care.’ ”
“Shakespeare was never a mother.”
Ron rose. “Call me if you have any questions. Hang in there. I’ll be thinking of you. So will Louisa.”
“Thanks.” Ellen watched Ron go to the door, followed by Marcelo, and she called out after them, “Ron, thanks for not saying, I told you so.”
Ron didn’t answer and they walked down the steps, the footsteps scuffling again, and in time, Marcelo came back upstairs with another drink.
“Please tell me that’s whiskey.”
“Coke.”
“Or not.” Ellen raised herself and took a sip, tasting the sweetness.
“Are you hungry?”
“No.” Ellen gave him the glass and lay back down, her head mercifully fuzzy again. Thoughts of Connie and her father popped through the oncoming clouds. “I have to tell the babysitter what happened.”
“She probably knows. It’s all over the TV.”
“She’ll be so upset.” Ellen felt a deep twinge. “She shouldn’t have to find out that way.”
“I’ll take care of everything.” Marcelo put the glass on the night table. “I don’t want you to worry about it. What’s her phone number?”
“It’s in my phone, in my purse. Her name is Connie. Also my father needs to know. He’s in Italy. Getting married.”
Marcelo frowned. “When does he get home?”
“I forget.”
“It’ll wait, then.”
“I need to feed the cat.”
“Let it go. Time to rest.” Marcelo squeezed her arm.
“Thank you for being so nice.”
“Ron’s right, you have to pick up the pieces. I’ll help.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to. I’m privileged to.” Marcelo stroked her arm, and Ellen felt her body relax.
“Am I staying here tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Where are you sleeping?”
“You tell me. I do have a spare room, but I’d like to stay here with you.”
Ellen’s head started to fog. “Is this a date?”
“We’re beyond dates.”
Ellen closed her eyes. She liked Marcelo’s voice, nice and deep, and the accent that made his words sibilant, his speech more like a purr than words. “But what about work? I mean, you’re my editor.”
“We’ll figure it out.”
“You were so worried about that, before.”
“Let’s just say that since then, I’ve gotten a better perspective.”
And whether Marcelo kissed Ellen on the cheek or she just dreamed it, she couldn’t tell.
Chapter Eighty-five
Ellen woke up, and the bedroom was still dark. She was lying on top of the comforter in her clothes, and Marcelo was spooning her, fully clothed, his arm hooked over her waist. The bedside clock glowed 3:46 A.M., and she waited for sleep to return, but it was as if a switch had been thrown in her brain. A light seared through the dark room of her mind, illuminating every corner, flooding every crack in the plaster, filling the grain in the floorboards, setting even the dust