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She moved from that to wardrobe, which presented a problem because Kerra’s suitcase was locked in the trunk of her car, to which she had no keys, and even if she did, the car was sealed in ice.
“I’ll figure out something,” Gracie said breezily and launched into the issue of Kerra’s bruised face. “I’ll go out first thing in the morning and try to find some good concealer, but, come to think of it, the bruises will—”
“Gracie, please, take a breath,” Kerra cut in. “I know what’s expected, and I’ll deliver. But let’s not lose sight of the fact that a great man is still in critical condition. He may die, and I’ll have been there when he was fatally attacked.” She bent her head over her hand and pressed her fingers to her forehead.
“That’s the kind of emotion I want to see from you tomorrow,” Gracie exclaimed. “Just like that. You’re distressed to the max. Inconsolable.”
Kerra was appalled by her insensitivity.
“Of course I realize that your distress is genuine,” Gracie added hastily. “It’s just that I’m trying to infuse you with some excitement. Where’s the go-getter I’m used to working with? Where’s your usual verve?”
“Sorry. I’m fresh out of verve,” Kerra said. “Besides, this conversation may well be pointless. So I’m running you out. I need to rest.”
Realizing she’d overstepped, Gracie gathered her things and went to the door. “I’m sorry. I get wound up and lose all perspective.”
“It’s okay. I do it myself.” Kerra hoped she never did it to that degree, but she had said it to get rid of Gracie faster.
“Do you need anything? Will you be all right?”
“After a good night’s sleep, I’ll be fine.” Kerra opened the door.
On her way out, Gracie said, “You know I’m up till all hours, so if you need—Who is that?”
Kerra turned to see who had Gracie agape.
He had swapped the leather jacket for a heavier one made of shearling sheepskin. The collar was flipped up against his jaw, which was set as hard as granite.
He was coming toward them from across the parking lot, appearing out of the swirling, freezing mist like an avenger in an apocalyptic movie, impervious to the precipitation, sure-footed in spite of the icy pavement, so purposeful in bearing and stride it seemed that no power could have stopped him unless it was divine. Or demonic.
“That’s John Trapper.”
Gracie’s eyes bulged behind her orange glasses. “The son?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve met him?”
Kerra swallowed. “Briefly.”
He almost had to duck to clear the low overhang. Ignoring Gracie as though she were invisible, he placed his two forefingers against Kerra’s sternum and pushed her back across the threshold, then slammed the door behind them.
Trapper stormed past her and took a look around. “Does that beer belong to anybody?” Without waiting for her to answer, he yanked a can from the plastic webbing and opened it.
“Help yourself.”
Ignoring her sarcasm, he looked her over while taking a long drink, and when he lowered the can, he said, “You don’t strike me as a beer drinker. Or a collector of balloons with goofy faces on them.”
“The crew hosted a party.”
“Party, huh? If you ask me, you don’t have much to celebrate.”
“Well, I didn’t ask you, did I? I don’t want you here, and where do you get off showing up and barging in whenever you feel like it?”
“When I barged in, you didn’t put up much of a fight. How come?”
“I’m short on verve.”
“Maybe. But that’s not it. You’re scared of me.”
