The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [148]
“Wes, you there?” Lisbeth asks through the phone.
Still breathing heavily and fighting for calm, I swallow hard, sit up straight, and finally shove the key into the ignition. “One sec,” I whisper into the phone. Punching the gas, I feel the wheels gnaw through the grassy divider, eventually catching and whipping me forward. As I wipe the last tears from my eyes, I notice a Chinese restaurant menu tucked underneath my windshield wiper. Steering with one hand and lowering the window with the other, I flick on the wipers, reach outside, and nab the menu just as the wiper blade slings it across the glass. But as I toss the menu into the passenger seat, I spot familiar handwriting running across the back page of the menu, just below the coupons. I jam my foot against the brake, and the car skids to a halt a full twenty feet shy of the stop sign at the end of the block.
“You okay?” Lisbeth asks.
“Hold on . . .”
I dive for the menu. The handwriting’s unmistakable. Perfect tiny block letters.
Wes, turn around. Make sure you’re alone.
(Sorry for the melodrama)
Whipping around in my seat, I check through the back window and sniff away the rest of the tears. The gate to the Mannings’ house is shut. The sidewalks are empty. And the grassy divider that splits the narrow street holds only the quiet navy-blue rental car of the Madame Tussauds folks.
“Did you find something?” Lisbeth asks.
Struggling to read the rest of the note, I can barely keep my hands from shaking.
You need to know what else he did. 7 p.m. at—
My eyes go wide when I see the location. Like before, it’s signed with a simple flourish. The tip of the R drags longer than the rest. Ron.
There’s a flush of sweet-sour wetness across the left half of my tongue. I touch my lip and spot the bright red liquid on my fingertips. Blood. I was biting my lip so hard, I didn’t even feel myself break the skin.
“What is it, Wes? What’s there?” Lisbeth asks, now frantic.
I’m about to tell her, but I catch myself, remembering what she’s done.
“Wes, what’s wrong?”
“I’m fine,” I say as I reread the note. “Just nervous.”
There’s a pause on the line. She’s been lied to by the best. I’m not even in the top ten. “Okay, what’re you not saying?” she asks.
“Nothing, I just—”
“Wes, if this is about the tape, I’m sorry. And if I could take it back—”
“Can we not talk about this?”
“I’m just trying to apologize. The last thing I wanted was to hurt you.”
“You didn’t hurt me, Lisbeth. You just treated me like a story.”
For the second time, she’s silent. It’s cutting her deeper than I thought. “Wes, you’re right: This is a story. It’s a big story. But there’s one thing I need you to understand: That doesn’t mean it’s only a story to me.”
“And that’s it?” I ask. “You make the pretty speech, the musical score swells, and now I’m supposed to trust you again?”
“Of course not—if I were you, I wouldn’t trust anyone. But that doesn’t mean you don’t need help. Or friends. And just FYI, if I were trying to burn you, when I got the new crossword . . . when I got the Violet and Dreidel story . . . I would’ve called my editor instead of you.”
I think on that for a moment. Just like I think about our first ride in the helicopter.
“And remember that trade where you promised that you’d give me the story?” she asks. “Forget it. I’m off. I don’t even want it anymore.”
“You’re serious about that?”
“Wes, for the past ten minutes, my notepad has been in my purse.”
I believe Lisbeth. I think she’s telling the truth. And I’m convinced she’s trying to do the right thing. But after today . . . after Manning . . . after Dreidel . . . after damn near everyone . . . the only person I can