“See?” I said. “My name really is Sunny.”
He put the card in his wallet. I was about to say goodbye, but he stood up. “I can walk you out to your car, Sunny.”
“That isn’t necessary,” I said.
Steve pulled on a coat. “I’m due a break anyway.”
“Okay,” I said, but I felt a little uneasy. I pulled my coat tight around me, my purse held close to my side, so that I could feel the compact weight of my .38. I grabbed my car keys out of my purse and clutched them in my hand, sharp edges out like claws.What if he’s genuinely angry about the way I faked being a fan? What if he’s angry enough to hurt me?An overreaction, to be sure—no doubt due in part to my conversation with Richie. Still, I did need to stop underestimating people, for the worse but also for the better. “Really, you don’t have to,” I said.
“I know.” Steve pressed a buzzer on his desk. A nurse came out, and he told her he was taking a quick break. She took his place at the desk just as more people came in. It was an elderly couple, the woman leaning against the man, limping miserably, the man so frail he could barely hold her up. Never had I seen two people so completely focused on getting from point A to point B. They were sure not to notice a large man in scrubs and a puffer coat, leaving the building a little too quickly, a nervous-looking woman in tow.
Thirteen
Steve held the door open for me. We walked outside into the cold air. It was early but past twilight already, the sky a deep amethyst.
My heart pounded, my head full of doubts. Calm, calm…
He slipped a hand into his coat pocket. Immediately, I went for my purse. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes. I breathed a sigh of relief.
“I’m assuming you don’t smoke,” Steve said after he lit a cigarette.
I shook my head.
“Good for you. It’s a crappy habit,” he said, taking a long drag.
“Like energy drinks.”
“Not as bad as that.”
I smiled and started toward my car. He walked with me.
“Okay, listen.” He spoke very quietly, his lips barely moving. “I wanted to talk to you in private for a reason.”
I looked at him.
“I have met Dylan Welch. Kind of.”
“What do you mean, ‘kind of’?”
“He was here once. As a patient.”
I stared at him. “What?”
“He OD’d.”
“How long ago?”
“Not very. Last month.”
“You sure it was him?”
“When I was at the desk, I looked it up on the computer, so yeah. I’m sure.” We were at my car now. I didn’t unlock the door. I just stood there, waiting for Steve to say more. He didn’t. He took another drag and blew out a thick white cloud. He was taller than I’d assumed he’d be. He looked bigger standing up, more serious in the dimly lit lot, his face shadowed like an informant from an old conspiracy movie.
“Did Welch come in alone?” I asked.
“Some woman brought him in,” Steve said.
“What did she look like?”
