Page 77
“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.”
