“Michael, it’s Patrick McCrae. Is Theresa available?”
“Hold on.”
Muffled voices. The phone changing hands.
“Patrick.”
Her voice. Finally. But something was wrong—it sounded hollow, scraped clean of energy.
“I’m back,” I said, unable to suppress the smile. “The trip was a success. We kept the consortium funding. Malcolm Hendricks was about as pleasant as a wet cat, but he came around in the end.”
“That’s wonderful.”
Two words that landed like stones. Flat. Distant.
“Theresa? What happened? Are you okay?”
A pause that stretched too long.
“I’ve been better.”
My spine straightened, jet lag forgotten. “Is it the board? Arthur?”
“Yes. It’s... I can’t talk about it over the phone.”
My stomach dropped. “Tell me. Whatever it is, we’ll fix it.”
“Not now with everyone around. Can we meet somewhere?”
I glanced at my watch. Nearly 7:30. I’d been home for exactly ten minutes, and Mrs. Kowalski would roast me alive if I left again. But Theresa’s voice...
“Name the place.”
“There’s a bar in Palo Alto. The Lounge. It’s out of the way, not much foot traffic. It’ll be a good place to talk.”
“I can be there in thirty minutes.”
“Thank you.” Her voice cracked slightly, and my concern deepened into something closer to alarm.
“Theresa, whatever happened?—”
“When I see you. Drive safe.”
The line went dead.
I sat staring at the receiver for a moment, then hauled myself out of the chair. The Lounge. Out of the way. None of that suggested good news.
Mrs. Kowalski was checking something in the oven when I found her.
“I need to go back out,” I said, the words tumbling over each other. “It’s important.”
She turned, one eyebrow climbing toward her hairline. “You just arrived.”
“I know. It’s a work emergency.”
The lie tasted bitter, but I was already halfway to the door.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can. Tell them we’ll do something this weekend. All of us.”
