"It means you're no longer a suspect, Mr. Frost," Monica says quietly.
Questions rise in him like a bonfire. "Who," Caleb manages, the word tasting of ash.
"I think you should go home and speak to your wife about it," she answers, then turns briskly and walks away, her purse tucked primly beneath her arm.
"Wait," Caleb calls out. He takes a deep breath. "Is ... is Nina okay with that?"
Monica smiles, lets the light reach her eyes. "Who do you think asked me to come?"
Peter agrees to meet me at the district court, where I'm going to have the restraining order vacated. The process takes all of ten minutes, a rubber stamp, with the judge asking only one question: How is Nathaniel?
By the time I come into the lobby, Peter is racing through the front door. He immediately comes toward me, concern drawing down the corners of his mouth. "I got here as soon as I could," he says breathlessly. His eyes dart to Nathaniel, holding my hand.
He thinks I need him to twist the letter of the law for me, squeeze blood from the stone heart of a judge, do something to stack the scales of justice in my favor. Suddenly I am embarrassed by the reason I called him.
"What is it?" Peter demands. "Anything, Nina."
I slip my hands in my coat pockets. "I really just wanted to get a cup of coffee," I admit. "I wanted to feel, for five minutes, like everything was back the way it used to be."
Peter's gaze is a spotlight; it sees down to my soul. "I can do that too," he says, and loops his arm through mine.
Although there are no seats left at the bar at Tequila Mockingbird by the time Patrick arrives, the bartender takes one look at him and hints strongly to a visiting businessman that he take his drink to a booth in the back. Patrick wraps his black mood around him like a parka, hops onto the vacant stool, and signals to Stuyvesant. The bartender comes over pouring his usual, Glenfiddich. But he hands Patrick the bottle, and keeps the glass of scotch behind the bar. "Just in case someone else here wants a shot," Stuyv explains.
Patrick looks at the bottle, at the bartender. He tosses his car keys on the counter, a fair trade, and takes a long swig of the liquor.
By now, Nina has been to the court and back. Maybe Caleb has made it home in time for dinner.
Maybe they've gotten Nathaniel to bed early, and are even now lying in the dark next to each other.
Patrick picks up his bottle again. He has been in their bedroom before. Big king-size bed. If he was married to her, they'd sleep on a narrow cot, that's how close to her he would be.
He'd been married himself for three years, because he believed that if you wanted to get rid of a hole, you filled it. He had not realized at the time that there were all sorts of fillers that took up space, but had no substance. That made you feel just as empty.
Patrick pitches forward as a blond woman hits him hard on the shoulder. "You pervert!"
"What the hell?"
She narrows her eyes. They are green, and caked with too much mascara. "Did you just touch my ass?"
"No."
Suddenly, she grins, insinuating herself between Patrick and the elderly man on his right. "Well, damn.
How many times will I have to walk by before you do?"
Sliding her drink beside Patrick's bottle, she holds out her hand. Manicured. He hates manicured hands.
"I'm Xenia. And you are?"
"Really not interested." Patrick smiles tightly, turns back to the bar.
"My mom didn't raise a quitter," Xenia says. "What do you do for a living?"
"I'm a funeral director."
"No, really."
Patrick sighs. "I'm on the vice squad."
