Page 51 of Not a Word

“You had the alarm on, didn’t you?”

“I don’t care. He could kick the door in.” She paused, then said, “We should have a gun.”

Brent didn’t need a second to consider the suggestion. “No.”

“And not just one. Two. One for me at home and one for you on the road. If you’d had one with you that night, when that man wanted what was in your briefcase, you wouldn’t have needed that security guard.”

Brent needed no time to think about this. “No,” he said again. “And I can’t take a gun with me when I’m flying.”

“Can’t you check it?”

“Forget it.”

“We can at least talk about it.”

“I don’t need to. I don’t want to take one with me and I don’t want one in the house. What if one of the boys found it, started playing with it? You know how many people get shot in their own home by accident, or use a gun to commit suicide?”

“We’d have to be careful,” Catherine conceded. “I’m not an idiot. But I am the one who’s left alone when you’re out there putting the squeeze on doctors. I’m the one who hears a bump in the night and wonders whether someone’s trying to break in.”

“That’s what the alarm is for.”

“What if someone snuck into the house before I set it?”

Reece wandered into the kitchen. “What are you guys fighting about?”

“Nothing,” Catherine said quickly.

Brent said, “Go watch TV.”

Later that week, Catherine came to a decision. She did not need her husband’s permission. Her security, her need to feel safe, was her business and no one else’s. And if Brent wasn’t going to help her with this, she’d find someone who would.

She made a call to the Wiffel-Smith offices, identified herself by name, said she was the spouse of one of the company’s top salespeople. If it’s possible, she said, she would like to be put through to a man named Crane, whom she had met at Graham Wiffel’s party.

“Yes,” said the woman on reception, “that would be Dalton Crane. Just one moment please.”

A moment later, an extension was answered. “Crane,” he said.

She introduced herself. “Mr. Crane, we met, but didn’t actually speak, the other evening, when Mr. Wiffel was chatting with my husband. At the party on Georgian Bay.”

“I remember,” he said. “And please call me Dalton.”

“The reason I’m calling, and I hope this doesn’t sound silly, but—”

“No, please, there are no silly questions,” he said patiently.

“Mr. Wiffel has helped so many people’s lives, helped them cope with pain they thought they could never deal with, and that’s made him a very popular man, a public figure, and I know that can bring a lot of unexpected, negative attention. For him, and for those who work for him.”

“Very true.”

“Brent, my husband, he highlighted some of the risks out there for a man like Mr. Wiffel, and even Brent has had people threaten him when he was on the road.” Catherine’s voice grew shaky. “There was an incident where a man threatened him with a gun outside a clinic. If there hadn’t been a security guard there I hate to think what might have happened.”

“I remember.”

“Brent’s installed an alarm system in the house, and I’m grateful for that, I really am, but I don’t think it’s enough. I want to be able to protect myself.”

“Of course,” he said understandingly.

“Do you know what I’m getting at?” She was reluctant to say out loud what it was she wanted.