“Good.” He shifted against the pillow and briefly clenched his jaw.
“Dominic noticed,” I said. “He said there was no gap between what you decided and what you did.”
The corner of his mouth moved. “Eamon’s going to be insufferable about this.”
“Why?”
“Because he told me to move the mark, and I told him the earlier adjustment was sufficient.” A pause. “He was right.”
He looked back at me. “Did Eamon talk to you?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“That you had a go-bag in your car.”
Thiago was quiet. “He wasn’t supposed to tell you that.”
“He said it without sentiment,” I said. “He said it the way he says everything.”
“That’s not an excuse.”
“No,” I said. “It’s an explanation.”
I leaned forward slightly in the chair.
“Seems like the kind of night,” he said, “when it would be nice not to wake up alone.”
“You won’t,” I said.
He reached out for my hand along the edge of the mattress.
I stayed until his breathing slowed. The monitors kept their steady count, and somewhere outside the room the city continued doing what it always did—playing music through open doors at three in the morning, moving freight on the river past the levees, and holding the dark in the canopies of the live oaks.
Chapter twenty-two
Thiago
“Mr. Reyes?”
I looked up.
A detective stood in the doorway with a folder tucked under one arm. Dominic was sitting beside the window, his jacket folded neatly over the back of the visitor’s chair. Luca sat near the bed, one hand resting lightly on the mattress beside my arm.
“Henri Devereaux has asked to speak with Mr. St. Clair,” the detective said.
He said it evenly, without drama.
I glanced toward Dominic. He had already turned from the window.
“Is that permitted?” he asked.
“They will supervise the conversation,” the detective said. “Recorded. Limited time.”
Dominic nodded. He looked at me.
“I want someone in that room,” he said, “who came to this without twenty years of accumulated history.”
