“No. Though I’m almost afraid to ask.”
“Well, the lieutenant is still bunking at the hotel, but looks like they’re going into couples counseling.”
“I don’t envy their therapist.”
“But here’s the kicker: to make this happen, Biegler had to pony up some cash and convince LaWanda Collins to relocate. As in, get outta town. Rumor is, she’ll soon be working the mean streets of Braddock, PA.”
I could hear Eleanor trying to keep her voice light, humorous. But I was also aware of what lay beneath it.
“Look, Ell,” I said at last. “I was going to call you myself today…”
“I’m…I’m doing okay, Danny. I mean, I’m worried about Treva. She’s looking at real jail time…”
“Listen. If I’ve learned nothing else about Treva, she’s a survivor. She’s damaged, sure. Like we all are, I guess, one way or another. But you’re the one I’m concerned about.”
“I told you, I’m fine. Or will be. Soon enough.”
“Just know that I’m here, all right?”
A long beat of silence.
“Look, Danny…about you and me…”
“Is there a ‘you and me’?”
“Maybe. I don’t know.” A wry smile returned to her voice. “I mean, if you’re really lucky…”
“Well, one thing I do know. We never got around to working out together. To see if I could keep up.”
“You’re right, we never did. Let me get back to you on that, okay?”
“You have my number.”
“In more ways than one, Danny. Believe me.”
***
The day ended with me sitting on the rear deck of my house, second Scotch in hand, looking down onto the lights of the city. The glistening Three Rivers joining at the Point. The night sounds of traffic on the bridges, working boats on the water, the occasional jet roaring overhead, out of Pittsburgh International.
The Steel City on a Sunday night, about to settle itself down. Ready itself for the week ahead.
I had the kitchen window behind me opened up full, to better hear the sounds of Ahmad Jamal’s piano coming from the radio. I was readying myself, too. For the work week ahead. For Mary Lewicki and the other patients like her. For things to get back to normal.
I’d also just gotten off the phone with Angie Villanova, confirming—under pain of death—my appearance at her place for dinner next Sunday.
That call had followed a similar phone conversation with Nancy Mendors, agreeing to another dinner next week. To meet and get to know her fiancé, Warren.
Jesus, I thought, what self-pitying bullshit. Or else a sober assessment of the life I’d created for myself. One thing I knew for sure. After a couple Scotches, a week’s worth of inadequate sleep, and a brush or two with imminent death, the last thing I should be doing at that moment was making any judgments. About anything.
So instead I got up, finished my drink, and went back inside the house. Shut off the music, killed the lights, and checked the locks. Grateful suddenly for the easy sameness, the unvarying routine.
Then I undressed, climbed into bed, and fell into a long, dreamless sleep.
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Table of Contents
Contents
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six