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“We moved into that house when Micki was two. Forty-four years.” Her eyes leak a steady trickle down each side of her nose. “It will never feel the same.” She gulps. “It’s like someone died.”
I hand her the box of tissues. Dad takes a defiant bite of pizza and talks around it. “If I catch that bastard…” He stops at Mom’s shocked look.
“You will call the police if you find him.” Her tone brooks no arguments. Then she dissolves into a sobbing mess. Dad puts his arms around her, head pressed against his chest, rocking her back and forth.
For me, this assault brings back memories of Cress’ condo after Tina left it a shamble last year. All her belongings smashed, clothes in shreds, books burned. Now she’s moved in with Max, I bet she’ll sell it or make it into a rental unit.
I ponder the extent of the damage to our house—mostly superficial or a huge restoration project? Numb, I wonder if eventually I’ll feel desolate like Mom? Does it matter to me now that I don’t live there?
I grab my laptop and pull up the folder of pictures. We had everything digitized a few years ago. It’s all happy families—unbearable. My deadened heart revives, and pain with it. My skin is sensitive, my clothes chafe. When I click off, waves of muscle contractions ripple through my arms and legs. While I’ve fretted about work, Sam is the bigger threat. Hayden might blow up my career, but Sam is blowing up my life and family.
Leaving my parents to a grief that pierces me but I can’t completely share, I lay out clothes for the voyage to come.
ChapterTen
When you play against an experienced opponent who exploits all the defensive resources at his command you sometimes have to walk time and again, along the narrow path of ‘the only move.’—David Bronstein
Micki
In the daysbefore I leave, living with Mom and Dad in the condo isn’t quite as bad as staying at the Evanston house would have been. Dad’s pretty territorial, but we’re on neutral turf, so he’s tiptoeing around the perimeter. After our session with the police came the good/bad news from the fire chief. The house is salvageable, but there will be a lot of work before they can move back in. The fire spread as far as the kitchen and downstairs half bath, so Mom and Dad have decided on a remodel, resigned to a long haul.
No sign of Sam. Where he’s gone to ground is a mystery. His studio is empty, and he doesn’t seem to have a new apartment. Maybe he’s hanging out with one of the women I never knew about. Could he have scared himself when he blew up my parents’ house? Even with bodyguards, I’m on constant alert in any public place.
I dread going into the office before I leave for Paris, but Fred demands my presence. 10:00 a.m. At nine forty-five, Case lounges against the open door to my office, sipping coffee, waiting to take me to the airport for my afternoon flight. An itch develops between my shoulder blades, knowing he’s watching me walk down the broad hallway toward the biggest corner office in our suite, where the spider that is Frederick Lanscombe weaves his web.
Fred has floor-to-ceiling windows that face east. Out of the corner of my eye, the lakefront shimmers in a weak April sun. Lemony air freshener scents the space, as if to greet me. I wonder if Atalanta, his administrative secretary, got a call from our receptionist, warning her I was on my way. Her eyes like burning coals, she glowers at me—Hera confronting Echo. Depriving me of speech, she’s up from behind her desk. “He’ll see you now,” she lets me know he’s been waiting and I’m late, even though I’m actually early.
I cross my fingers on each hand, arms straight down. Pull back my shoulders and hold my head high. Like I have to impress his minion. I manage not to slump as this thought crosses my mind.
Fred could be right off the screen as a television lawyer. Even sitting—and he doesn’t stand when the Greek goddess ushers me into his office—he is noticeably tall, thin, and angular. A hawklike, patrician face with hooded, chilly blue eyes that have an avid, predatory expression. His pearl gray custom suit screams expensive and is complemented by a blindingly white shirt, and heavy gold cuff links adorning the French cuffs that peek out from his jacket sleeves. Intimidating is the best one-word description of the man who holds supreme power over my career at the firm.
Don’t fire me today. And please, please, please let me make my plane.
“Thank you for coming in, Micki.” His voice, as always, undermines the carefully cultivated look and the mansion on the lake. He has the same Bridgeport accent as the late Mayor Daley, underlining his Chicago roots and crafty political savvy.
Waving a long hand with thin, slightly knobby fingers, he says, “Siddown, siddown. I know we’re short on time. When is your flight again?”
“Three. I need to be at O’Hare…”
“I know, three hours ahead. That’s bullshit timing. But this won’t take long.”
My face hardens to stone while hairs bristle on the back of my neck. I press my lips together, catching the lower one between my teeth. His expectant look stiffens my determination not to respond. I’m not a brilliant chess player, but I have a few moves in my arsenal.
“Well.” He clears his throat. Then taps his fingers against the pristine green blotter on his desk. I watch his eyes move to the pen, placed just so next to the yellow legal pad, covered with a neat, precise script. He almost reaches for it, then folds his hands and leans forward.
“Ms. Press. Dis is merely an informal chat.”
I keep my interior chuckle to myself. He tries to use as few words as possible that highlight his pronunciation.
“Yes. Informal. Just a reminder. We expect you to work on the case while you’re away.”
I hold up my laptop case in acknowledgment, unsure why he thinks reminding me is necessary.
He pauses, eyes narrowed. “Fortunately, Hayden will keep an eye on things here.”
“Isn’t that Rebecca’s job?” This is weird.
He moistens his lips. “Ah, of course. But Hayden will be her unofficial second-in-command since you’ll be traveling.” As if hinting it would be my position if I were staying here.
