“Thank you, Mrs. Snyder.”
Her eyes hold mine for a second too long. I tilt my chin half an inch—easy, easy—and her smile widens by a millimeter before she goes back to nibbling at her bread.
The entrées come. Steak for Raymond, of course. Something with truffles for Bill. The fish for Cass, which she pushes around with her fork without really eating. I get duck I can barely taste.
I cut. I chew. I swallow. I check my watch.
8:42. We’re so fucking close.
“Excuse me a minute, gentlemen.” Raymond shoves his chair back and stands. He sways for half a second, then catches himself on the table. “Need to drain the lizard.”
“Charming, Ray,” Bill mutters.
Raymond winks, then claps me on the shoulder before he sets off, weaving and stumbling through the tables toward the side hallway where the restrooms are.
I count to twenty in my head. Then I set the napkin on the table. “Will you all excuse me for a moment?”
I intentionally resist the urge to look at Cass. Instead, I push my chair back, straighten my jacket so the gun stays flush and hidden, and walk.
Across the ballroom.
Past the quartet.
Around a knot of associates from another firm who tip their drinks at me as I pass.
The hallway opens off the side of the room behind a half-drawn velvet curtain. The lighting drops as I step through, gold giving way to a dimmer wall-sconce amber. The carpet absorbs my footsteps.
The men’s room is at the end of the hall on the right. I can hear the muted thump of the bass from the ballroom behind me, the rasp of my shoes, my own controlled breath.
My hand drifts back, casual, and brushes the grip under my jacket. Still there, right where it should be.
He’ll be at the urinal. The bathroom will be empty, or close to it, since we’re mid-entrée. I’ll go in, lock the door behind me, and it will be done in fifteen seconds. I’ll come back out and pretend like all is well, and let someone else suffer the nasty shock of finding his body.
Cass will wake up tomorrow a widow. The only thing she has to do is cry on cue. I get the feeling that won’t be too hard. No one but us will know that they’re tears of joy.
Five more steps. Four. Three?—
A hand closes around my wrist.
It comes out of the alcove on my left where the women’s bathroom door is and yanks. I let it, because the alternative is breaking it, and I already know whose hand it is from the second it touches me.
The door swings shut behind us. There’s a clunk as she throws the bolt.
“Cass—”
“Don’t talk yet. Someone might hear you.”
I let her push me back. The women’s bathroom at the Pierre is a parlor before it’s a bathroom. There’s an antechamber with a velvet bench and a dish of mints resting on top of a vanity, then a doorway through to the actual stalls. She backs me into therestroom proper, then lets go of me and stands there, breathing hard, her chest going up and down, a pink flush climbing her throat above the high collar.
“I have to tell you something,” she says. “Before you do it, I mean.”
Now?! Has she lost her mind?!
I’m fucking livid. I was so close to the end of this bullshit. Tofreedom.“What the fuck are you?—”
“I’m pregnant.”
…What did she just say?
