Page 42 of Not a Word

“Immensely. Having a wonderful time. Nothing like an open bar to take your mind off your troubles.”

Brent glanced at Catherine, as though seeking guidance about whether to ask. “Troubles?” he said.

“Just a little death in the extended family is all,” she said, licking her lips.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. Someone close?”

“Nephew.” She wavered slightly, had another drink. “Miles. Twenty-eight. Computer programmer, a real whiz.” She snorted. “I always called him when I couldn’t get my printer to work.”

“That’s terrible,” Catherine said. “So young.”

“Yeah, right? Completely unexpected. Miles was playing hockey, some asshole the size of a Zamboni slammed him into the boards, fucked up his shoulder big-time. He went to all these doctors, looking for something to take the pain away. Enter Aunt Evelyn to save the day! She’s got just the answer. A miracle cure! And even better, she’s got the inside track on where to get what you need.”

“Evelyn,” Brent said quietly, leaning in, “why don’t we go in there and sit down?”

“Hmm?” she said.

He nodded in the direction of the tent. “Maybe have a seat, get some coffee into you?”

He went to take her drink from her, but she swung her arm away, champagne spilling over the rim. “But I haven’t finished my story,” she said. “It gets better.”

“Maybe you could tell it to me another time and—”

“No, no, you need to hear it now. So I had some sample packs I gave Miles, and he gobbled them down like M&Ms. Did the trick, too, right? But I had to go and tell him about this doctor I knew who could help him out if he never needed a renewal on a prescription. This doctor, very good friend, might even be here tonight and if he is I’ll rip his fucking face off. Because see, not only did Miles go see that guy, he found three or four other doctors who were happy to help him out. Wolfing pills like I downed those shrimp at the bar.” She had distracted herself with the mention of shrimp. “Did you have any of those jumbo ones? Best shrimp I ever had in my life. Big as horseshoes.”

“Evelyn, this is not the place,” Brent whispered.

“No wait, listen, then I get the call. From my niece—boy, does she ever love me now—who hadn’t heard from Miles for a while, went by the house to check on him, and he was out cold. She can’t get him to wake up, so she dialed nine-one-one and they came and tried their best but . . . he’s gone.”

Evelyn went quiet for a moment, knocked back the rest of her drink. Brent and Catherine said nothing.

Evelyn, dismayed that her glass was empty, tossed it. It shattered on the flagstones. She fixed her gaze on Brent.

“You living the good life?” she asked. “I sure am. I treated myself. A Boxster. Little Porsche convertible. All my life I dreamed of getting a car like that. Putting the top down, feeling the wind in my hair. You know what I’ve been thinking of doing to it? Dousing it with high-test and tossing a match to it. I wonder if that would make me feel any better. What do you think, Brent?”

“Where are you staying, Evelyn? In one of the guesthouses?”

“As a matter of fact, I am. They had me fill out a little form, pick what I wanted for breakfast. I chose the fruit plate.”

“Let us walk you there,” Catherine offered. “Get you all tucked in. In the morning, things will look better.”

She smiled. “They treat you so well, don’t they? Get you hooked. Not on Oxy-Mirac. That’s for the other suckers. They get us hooked on the money. The perks. The trips to Hawaii when you shoot past your quota. Do you know what my father made a year? No, of course you don’t. I bet, his best year, he might have made twenty, twenty-five thousand. You know what I pulled in last year? Half a mil. Half a fucking mil. It’s like they shot that money right into my arm. Think I saw our grand pooh-bah go by a minute ago. Should go say thank you.”

Brent and Catherine exchanged worried glances. He said, “I don’t know about you, but I really could go for a coffee. Why don’t we—”

Evelyn swayed one last time, fell into Brent’s arms, and passed out.

Sixteen

Reece

It was closing in on ten o’clock on the longest day of my life.

Earlier, I’d called Mom to ask whether there was anything she needed after her meeting with McCabe. Help with funeral arrangements? Hire someone to go into the bedroom she’d shared with my father and make it look like nothing had ever happened there? (I’d watched enough TV and read enough Elmore Leonard to know there were businesses that provided such a service.) Or, very simply, be there for her? Did she want to come over and have dinner with Diana and Gage and me?

Before I could get to any of those things, Mom lit into me.

“You should have let me tell him,” she said.