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I was thinking about the consequence if I wasn’t.
This seems like a lot to explain, so when Henry repeats the question again, I simply say, “I’m not sure what you mean.”
Henry’s face darkens, as quickly as a cloud moving in front of the sun. “Your lunch date.”
“That’s not what I’d call a date.”
“Yeah…well—” He nods at my dress. “I beg to differ.”
I smile. I can’t help myself. “You like it?” I ask, striking a bit of a pose. I knew he would. “It’s Zuhair Mur—”
“He had eyes on him, Liv.”
“I know.” Turning away, I give the overhead bin an irritable shake. Lies require noise and misdirection. Silence is the best way to draw the truth to the surface, which is why I leave it at that.
“If you knew…then what in the hell were you doing?”
I turn and smile. “Having fun.”
“My God—I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to say to that.”
I don’t know either. I could tell him he shouldn’t have followed me, but we both know it doesn’t matter, and anyway, this isn’t the point he’s trying to make.
“It wasn’t his security detail,” he tells me with a sigh. “And it wasn’t one of us.”
“So who was it?” I ask, because even if the shoe doesn’t fit, Henry wants you to shrink into it.
His eyes close slowly before opening again. When they do, they pin me in place. It’s as though he is looking straight through me. Finally, he shakes his head. “That,” he says with a mirthless flash of teeth, “is the million-dollar question.”
I start to speak, to say something, to say anything—to prove that this isn’t as big of a deal as he’s making it. But before I can form the words, he steps forward and grabs my wrist, and something in his eyes stops me. That something, whatever it is, reminds me of the Italian with the watch. It takes me back to that first kill, reminding me how easily accidents can happen. It’s all reflected there now, a warning or a premonition, I’m not sure. “It’s dangerous to go digging around in the past, Liv. You know that.”
When I don’t offer the rebuttal he is expecting, Henry raises my wrist, and motions for me to flatten my palm. He slaps his phone into it. “Geoffrey Dunsmore,” he nods. “You might recall—the reason we flew to Fort Lauderdale.”
My eyes shift from Henry’s to the screen. Our passenger, who is inconveniently running late, stares back at me.
I take in the close-set eyes, the oversized nose, and backward smile. Then I glance up at Henry. “I am not as good at forgetting as you might think.”
It’s an olive branch, the photo. “Quite the colorful history, he has.” Henry’s expression and his tone tell me that he’s willing to forget my little excursion, at least for now. They tell me he’s calmed down, that he wants to focus on the job at hand. Henry is a professional, first and foremost. But it’s more than this, I realize. He detests men like Geoffrey Dunsmore.
“The hit,” I say. “Who contracted it?”
Henry avoids my question by leaning down and rubbing at a smudge on a window, which only makes it worse.
The truth is it doesn’t matter. I’m aware of Dunsmore’s history. I’ve read his file. Twice. Child pornography, statutory rape, and enough family money to make those things go away.
Still, this doesn’t dull my curiosity.
When Henry—who has now devoted himself to properly cleaning all of the windows, going from row to row—finally looks up, disappointment is strewn across his face. “You know better than to ask that.”
My brows rise. “Apparently not.”
“Even if I knew—you know I can’t say.”
“Just want to know how far I’m allowed to take things.”
“What does it matter?”
“I’d bet it matters to his victims and their families a lot.”
