It’s fine. Saturday’s a working week away. Plenty of time to find where Vicky’s hiding.
Hell, it’s Monday. She’s probably already back at Carol’s.
“I told you she’s not here,” Carol says, and tries to close her door in my face. The toe of my shoe stops her.
“Have you heard from her?”
“No.” Her scowl returns.
And I know, instinctively, that Vicky hasn’t been in touch because she knew I’d be back. Which means she’s not coming back—not here, at least.
“If you hear, will you tell me?” I ask, more from completeness than any expectation.
“No,” Carol says bluntly. “If Vicky wants you, she has your number, doesn’t she?”
This time, when she tries to close the door, I let her.
The week passes slowly, and for the first time, I’m struggling to concentrate on my work.
Rita notices, of course.
“Have you heard a single thing I’ve said?” she asks, mid-Friday morning, Greenstone papers spread out on the table in my office.
I haven’t, and my usual ability to recall things half-heard has failed me.
I also don’t care.
She closes her laptop in exasperation. “Don’t you remember? Your success is my success, and yourfailureis mine too. I don’t like failing, Alex.”
“I’m not going to fail.” I might want to learn the piano one day.
“You’re so obsessed with that vapid little investigator. Was it that you didn’t get a blowjob last night, or was it that wastoogood?”
“Watch your mouth,” I snap. “That’s my fiancée you’re talking about.”
“Is she really?” She arches an eyebrow.
“You know damn well she is.”
“Have you set a date, then?”
No. We’ve never even discussed it.
But DeLuca’s been clear: six months. Or five-and-change, now.
None of that is Rita’s business. “Plenty of peoplehave long engagements.”
“Says the man who’s all ‘I take what I want, when I want it.’”
She’s trying to goad me. Probably still pissed about Friday.
I lean back in my chair and let my eyes go cold. “Invaluable, you may be. Replaceable, you are.”
Her mouth closes on whatever retort she was about to give me, then her shoulders slump. I think she’s going to say more, but instead, she stands, picks up her laptop, and walks across my office. She pauses by the door. “I know you have this trip to see Fournier tomorrow, so I’ll cut you some slack. By Monday, would youpleasehave your head back in the game?”
I don’t reply, and the door closes behind her.
And though I’m tired of admitting it, Rita is, yet again, right.
