“Does he speak?” Beatrice asked. “Or only grunt?”
“He speaks.” And when he does, he ties me up in knots, she thought, not that she would ever say that to them.
“What’re you doing with him?” Alberta asked.
“We’re friends. And colleagues.”
“He’s your boss, right?”
“Technically.”
Beatrice snorted. “Is he or is he not your boss?”
“He is.” She’d sucked at lying to them all her life, so there was no point in trying to get away with it now.
Alberta crossed her arms and gave Memphis the stare-down from the right side, while Beatrice armed the left flank. Did they care that she was still in the ICU?
“So what’s he doing sleeping in your room?” Alberta asked.
“He came to check on me last night and fell asleep. He’s been looking for the first lady’s missing nephew and had been up for two days.”
“What would his boss have to say about him spending the night in your hospital room?” Alberta asked.
“Good question,” Beatrice said.
As always, they were the ultimate tag team.
“Can we save this inquisition for another time? I’m not feeling great.”
“You look much better,” Alberta said.
“Great, but my leg hurts like a bitch.”
“Language,” Beatrice said with a frown.
What would she say if Memphis said fuck this shit at the top of her lungs, the way she wanted to?
“What’s his story?” Alberta asked, never one to give up the proverbial bone once she had a taste of it.
“He’s a marshal, like me.”
“What’s the rest of his story? Why’s he so weird?”
“He’s not weird, Mom! Stop saying that!”
Maybe she shouldn’t have responded so vehemently, because their curiosity was even more piqued than it’d been before.
“No need to be defensive. He’s just a guy you work with, right?”
“Yeah.”
“You know what I always say, Mama?” Alberta asked her mother.
“What’s that, sugar?”
“You can lie to some people, but your mama and your grandmama can see right through your nonsense.”
“You do say that—a lot.”
