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The next thing she knew, Roarke was carrying her out of the office.
“I’m awake, I’m awake.”
“You weren’t. Give it a rest.”
“I was working stuff out. He hit on all the women—the Quigley-connection women. Was it to give Copley a jab? Sure you take me golfing at the club, but you make sure I know I’m the help. Guess what, fucker? I’m doing your wife. I did your sister-in-law. I’d do your sister-in-law’s best pal, but she’s a lesbian. Except not. Catiana’s connected to both. I checked her financials, but maybe—”
“No other accounts, no secret money hidden away. I looked.”
“You did?”
“I did.” He set her on the bed. “Anticipating you.”
“Oh.” She watched him, with sleepy affection, as he took off her boots. “It didn’t feel right anyway, but you’ve got to think about it.”
“Suspicious minds do, which equal yours and mine. Now, we’re both going to turn off those suspicious minds so we can put them to work for us tomorrow.”
She peeled off her clothes, didn’t bother with a nightshirt. That took too much energy.
“Do you need a suspicious one tomorrow?”
“I need one every day—yours and mine,” he repeated and slid in beside her.
“It’s after midnight.”
“Well after.”
“So it’s Christmas Eve.”
“It is indeed.”
“I’m going to wrap this up by tomorrow afternoon, then we’ll have ours, right?”
“We’ll have ours.” When she stroked his cheek he drew her in and, knowing how to lull her, rubbed her back lightly until she dropped away.
They’d have theirs, he thought, but for a moment he saw Catiana lying in her own blood. Others, no matter the justice, would grieve.
He pressed his lips to Eve’s hair, drew in her scent, and let it lull him to sleep as well.
In the morning, Eve got out early and still the traffic was vicious. The cold rain came, as predicted, and brought a bonus round of icy sleet that sizzled like frying meat when it hit the pavement and slicked the roads.
She watched a guy—she assumed male though he was wrapped up like an Arctic explorer in a hooded parka—make a dash for a glide-cart, slip and land solidly on his back, where he wobbled like an upturned turtle.
While the cart vendor—probably sensing a sale—clomped over to help him up, a skinny guy wearing a grimy cap with grimier earflaps reached into the cart and helped himself to some bags of chips and a soft pretzel he shoved into the pockets of his even grimier trench coat.
Spotting the thief, the vendor gave chase, dropping the Arctic guy so he once again wobbled and flopped.
The short vignette on street life entertained her during the red light.
She watched people slip and slide, cars fishtail as they took a turn too fast, listened to the harsh music of horns blasting when other vehicles didn’t move fast enough to suit. Overhead, over all, an ad blimp blasted frantically through the dull gray sky, announcing THE LAST CHANCE! THE FINAL HOURS! so that Christmas Eve in New York took on the aura of the apocalypse.
Since the weather seriously sucked and Peabody’s apartment was nearly on the way to the hospital, Eve arranged to pick up her partner. Five minutes out, she sent Peabody a text.
Pulling up in five. I wait, you walk.
When she did pull up, she glanced up at her old apartment windows—currently Mavis and family’s windows—and found them outlined with festive green and red lights. They shined happily against the cold, gray rain.
She imagined them up there, maybe dealing with breakfast, the kid jabbering, Mavis laughing, Leonardo beaming at “his girls.”
