| crying and poured more coffee. “Are any of the injuries permanent?” she asked. “The doctor thinks probably not. There will be scarring, but with time everything should heal.” “Mentally, how is he?” “He’s okay. He’s sleeping even less. He has nightmares constantly, both day and night. But with medication, he’s getting better. I honestly can’t imagine what he’s going through.” He took a sip of coffee and said, “I guess he’s lucky to be alive.” “He always said they wouldn’t kill him.” There was so much to ask her. The lawyer in Sandy almost screamed out an endless barrage: Did Patrick know they were close behind him? Did he know the chase was about to end? Where was she when they were closing in? Did she live with him? How did they hide the money? Where is the money now? Is it safe? Please, tell me something. I’m the lawyer. I can be trusted. “Let’s talk about his divorce,” she said, abruptly changing the subject. She could sense his curiosity. She stood and walked to a drawer where she removed a thick file and placed it before him. “Did you see Trudy on TV last night?” she asked. “Yes. Pathetic, wasn’t it?” “She’s very pretty,” Leah said. “Yes, she is. I’m afraid Patrick made the mistake of marrying her for her looks.” “He wouldn’t be the first.” “No, he wouldn’t.” “Patrick despises her. She is a bad person, and she was unfaithful to him throughout their marriage.” “Unfaithful?” “Yes. It’s |
years?” “In storage. In Mobile.” Her answers were short, and each gave rise to a dozen quick questions Sandy would have loved to throw at her. “We’ll get to it later,” she said, and dismissed it with a casual wave. In the kitchen, there was a whole roasted chicken on the cutting board by the sink. A pan of brown rice mixed with vegetables was steaming on the stove. “It’s pretty basic,” she said. “I find it hard to cook in someone else’s kitchen.” “Looks delicious. Whose kitchen is this?” “It’s just a rental. I have it for the month.” She sliced the chicken and directed Sandy to pour the wine, a fine pinot noir from California. They sat at a small table in the breakfast nook, with a splendid view of the water and the remains of the sunset. “Cheers,” she said, raising her glass. “To Patrick,” Sandy said. “Yes, to Patrick.” She made no effort to address her food. Sandy stuffed a large slice of chicken breast into his mouth. “How is he?” He chewed rapidly so he wouldn’t disgust this delightful young woman with a mouthful of food. A sip of wine. Napkin to the lips. “Patrick’s okay. The burns are healing nicely. A plastic surgeon examined him yesterday, and said that no grafts will be necessary. The scars will be with him for a few years, but they will eventually fade. The nurses bring him cookies. The Judge brings him pizza. No less than six armed |
