skull. He hovered over her, arms locked, the cords of his triceps
bulging.
He felt a tear escape his eye, touch his cheek, like a single wandering
snowflake-homeless, just like him. “Why aren’t you kicking the shit
out of me, Faith?”
“Because it’s not your fault.”
Lee started to feel sick to his stomach, his arms weakening. She moved
her arm, and he let it go, releasing her without Faith having to say a
word. She touched his face, very gently, like a feather dropped from
the sky. With a simple motion she rubbed the single tear away. When
she spoke, her voice was hoarse. “Because I took your life.”
He nodded in understanding. “So if I run with you, do I get this every
night? My little dog biscuit?”
“If that’s what you want.” She suddenly took her hand away, let it
drop to the bedding.
He made no move to take it again.
He finally opened his eyes and stared down at the numbing sadness in
her gaze, the lingering pain in the tightness of her neck and face;
pain he had inflicted and she had taken, silently; the outline of her
own hopeless tears against pale cheeks. They all were like searing
heat that somehow flashed right past his skin, collided with his heart,
vaporizing it.
He pulled himself off her, staggered into the bathroom. He barely made
it to the toilet, where the beer and dinner came out much faster than
it had gone in. Then Lee passed out on the very expensive Italian tile
floor.
The tingle of the cold washcloth against his forehead brought him
around. Faith was behind him, cradling him. She seemed to be wearing
some kind of long-sleeved T-shirt. He could make out her long,
muscular calves and her skinny, curved toes. Lee felt a thick towel
across his middle. He was still nauseous, and cold, his teeth
chattering. She helped him sit up and then stand, her arm around his
waist. He was wearing a pair of Jockeys. She must have done it; he
wouldn’t have been capable. As it was, he felt like he’d been hog-tied
to a whirlybird for about two days. Together they made it back to the
bed and she helped him in, covering him with the sheet and comforter.
“I’ll sleep in another room,” she said softly.
He said nothing, refusing to open his eyes once more.
He could hear her move to the door. Right before she left, he said,
“I’m sorry, Faith.” He swallowed; his tongue felt big as a damn
pineapple.
Before she closed the door, he heard her say so very quietly, “You
won’t believe this, Lee, but I’m more sorry than you.”
CHAPTER 34
BROOKE REYNOLDS LOOKED CALMLY AROUND the interior of the bank.
It had just opened and there were no other customers in the branch. In
another life she might have been casing the place for future robbery.
The thought actually brought a rare smile to her face. She had several
scenarios she could have played out, but the very young man sitting
behind the desk, with the title of assistant branch manager on a name
plate in front of him, had decided the matter.
He looked up as she approached. “Can I help you?”
His eyes grew appreciably larger when the FBI creds came out, and he
sat up much straighter, as though attempting to show her that he indeed
had a backbone beneath the boyish facade. “Is there a problem?”
“I need your assistance, Mr. Sobel,” Reynolds said, eyeing the name on
the brass plate. “It has to do with an ongoing Bureau
investigation.”
“Of course, certainly, whatever I can do,” he said.
Reynolds sat down across from him and spoke in a quiet, direct manner.
“I have a key here that fits a safe-deposit box at this branch. It was
obtained during the investigation. We think whatever’s in the box
might lead to serious consequences. I need to get inside that box.”
“I see. Well, um-”
“I have the account statement with me, if that’ll help.”
Bankers loved paper, she knew; and the more numbers and statistics, the
better. She handed it across to him.
He looked down at the statement.