She was right. He felt terrible. The last thing Jed wanted was someone pounding on his door while he was trying to drown himself in the shower. Cursing, he twisted off the taps, wrapped a towel around his waist and dripped his way to the door. He yanked it open.
“What the hell do you want?”
“Good morning, Skimmerhorn.” Dora breezed in with a wicker basket over her arm. “I see you’re your usual bright and cheerful self.”
She was wearing some sort of short-skirted outfit in vivid blues and gold that made his eyes throb. “Get lost.”
“My, we are feeling nasty this morning.” Unoffended, she unpacked the basket. Inside was a red plaid thermos, a mason jar filled with some sort of vile-looking orange liquid and a snowy-white napkin folded around two flaky croissants. “Since my father instigated this little affair, I thought I should see to your welfare this morning. We’ll need a glass, a cup and saucer, a plate.” When he didn’t move, she tilted her head. “Fine, I’ll get them. Why don’t you go put some clothes on? You made it clear that you’re not interested in me on a physical level, and the sight of your damp, half-naked body might send me into an unbridled sexual frenzy.”
A muscle in his jaw twitched as he ground his teeth. “Cute, Conroy. Real cute.” But he turned and strode off into the bedroom. When he came back wearing gray sweats torn at the knee, she’d set a neat breakfast on his picnic table.
“Had any aspirin yet?”
“I was working on it.”
“These first, then.” She offered him three pills. “Take them with this. Just gulp it down.”
He scowled at the sickly orange liquid she’d poured into a tumbler. “What the hell is it?”
“Salvation. Trust me.”
Because he doubted he could feel much worse, he swallowed the pills with two big gulps of Dora’s remedy. “Christ. It tastes like embalming fluid.”
“Oh, I imagine it’s the same principle. Still, I can guarantee the results. Dad swears by it, and believe me, he’s the expert. Try the coffee—it won’t do much for the hangover, but you’ll be fully awake to enjoy it.”
Because his eyes were threatening to fall out, he pressed the heels of his hands against them. “What was in that flask?”
“Quentin Conroy’s secret weapon. He has a still in the basement where he experiments like a mad scientist. Dad likes to drink.”
“Now there’s news.”
“I know I should disapprove, but it’s hard to. He doesn’t hurt anyone. I’m not even sure he hurts himself.” She broke off a corner of one of the croissants and nibbled. “He doesn’t get surly or arrogant or nasty with it. He’d never consider getting behind the wheel of a car—or operating heavy machinery.” She shrugged. “Some men hunt or collect stamps. Dad drinks. Feeling better?”
“I’ll live.”
“That’s fine, then. I’ve got to go open up. You’d be amazed at how many people shop on Christmas Eve.” She started out, paused with her hand on the knob. “Oh, and the banister looks good. Thanks. Let me know when you feel up to hammering together some shelves. And don’t worry.” She flashed him a smile. “I don’t want to sleep with you either.”
Dora closed the door quietly and hummed her way down the hall.
DiCarlo was feeling fine. His luck was back; the rented Porsche was tearing up 95. Neatly boxed on the seat beside him rode a bronze eagle and a reproduction of the Statue of Liberty, both easily purchased from a novelty shop just outside of Washington, D.C.
It had gone slick as spit, DiCarlo thought now. He had walked into the shop, done some nominal browsing, then had walked out again, the proud owner of two pieces of American kitsch. After a quick detour into Philadelphia to pick up the next two items on his list, he would head into New York. All things being equal, he would make it home by nine o’clock, with plenty of time for holiday celebrations.
The day after Christmas he would take up his schedule again. At this pace, he figured he would have all of Mr. Finley’s merchandise in hand well before deadline.
He might even earn a bonus out of it.
Tapping his fingers along with the dance track, he dialed Finley’s private number on the car phone.
“Yes.”
“Mr. Finley. DiCarlo.”
“And do you have something of interest to tell me?”
“Yes, sir.” He all but sang it. “I’ve recovered two more items from D.C.”
“The transactions went smoothly?”
“Smooth as silk. I’m on my way to Philadelphia now. Two more items are in a shop there. I should arrive by three at the latest.”
“Then I’ll wish you Merry Christmas now, Mr. DiCarlo. I’ll be difficult to reach until the twenty-sixth. Naturally, if you have something to report, you’ll leave a message with Winesap.”
“I’ll keep in touch, Mr. Finley. Enjoy your holiday.”
Finley hung up the phone but continued to stand on his balcony, watching the smog clog the air over LA. The etui hung around his neck on a fine gold chain.
DiCarlo did arrive in Philadelphia by three. His luck was holding steady as he walked into Dora’s Parlor fifteen minutes before closing. The first thing he noticed was a statuesque redhead wearing a green elf’s cap.
Terri Starr, Dora’s assistant, and a devoted member of the Liberty Players, beamed at DiCarlo.
“Merry Christmas,” she said in a voice as clear as holiday bells. “You’ve just caught us. We’re closing early today.”
DiCarlo tried out a sheepish smile. “I bet you hate us eleventh-hour shoppers.”
“Are you kidding? I love them.” She’d already spotted the Porsche at the curb and was calculating ending the business day with a last whopping sale. “Are you looking for anything in particular?”
“Actually, yes.” He took a look around the shop, hoping he’d spot either the painting or the china hound quickly. “I’m on my way home, and I have an aunt who collects statues of animals. Dogs in particular.”
“I might be able to help you out.” Topping six foot in her spiked heels, Terri moved through the shop like a staff sergeant inspecting troops. She’d sized up DiCarlo’s suit and overcoat as well as his car, and led him toward the jade.
“This is one of my favorite pieces.” She opened a curved glass cabinet and took out an apple-green carved Foo dog, one of their most expensive objects. “Gorgeous, isn’t he?”
“Yes, but I’m afraid my aunt’s tastes aren’t quite so sophisticated.” He let amusement play around his eyes. “You know how these little ladies are.”
“Are you kidding? You can’t run a curio shop and not know. Let’s see, then.” With some regret Terri replaced the jade. “We’ve got a couple of nice cocker spaniels in plaster.”
“I’ll take a look. Would it be all right if I just browsed around? I know you’d like to get out of here, and I might see something that strikes me as being Aunt Maria.”
“You go right ahead. Take your time.”
DiCarlo saw the plaster cockers. He saw cloisonné poodles and blown-glass retrievers. There were plastic dalmations and brass Chihuahuas. But nowhere did he see the china hound.
He kept his eye peeled for the painting as well. There were dozens of framed prints, faded portraits, advertising posters. There was no abstract in an ebony frame.
“I think I’ve found the perfect—” Terri backed up two steps when DiCarlo whirled around. She was a woman who prided herself on reading expressions. For a moment there, she’d thought she’d read murder in his. “I—sorry. Did I startle you?”
His smile came so quickly, wiping out the icy gleam in his eyes, she decided she’d imagined it. “Yes, you did. Guess my mind was wandering. And what have we here?”
“It’s Staffordshire pottery, a mama English sheepdog and her puppy. It’s kind of sweet, isn’t it?”
“Right up Aunt Maria’s alley.” DiCarlo kept the pleasant smile in place even after he’d spotted the four-figure price tag. “I think she’d love it,” he said, hoping to buy time by having it wrapped. “I had something a little different in my mind, but this is Aunt Maria all over.”
“Cash or charge?”
“Charge.” He pulled out a credit card. “She used to have this mutt, you see,” he continued as he followed Terri to the counter. “A brown-and-white spotted dog who curled up on the rug and slept twenty hours out of twenty-four. Aunt Maria adored that dog. I was hoping to find something that looked like him.”
“That’s so sweet.” Terri nestled the Staffordshire in tissue paper. “You must be a very considerate nephew.”
“Well, Aunt Maria helped raise me.”
“It’s too bad you weren’t in a few days ago. We had a piece very much like you’re talking about. In china, a spotted hound, curled up asleep. It was only in the shop a day before we sold it.”
“Sold it?” DiCarlo said between smiling teeth. “That’s too bad.”
“It wasn’t nearly as fine a piece as the one you’ve just bought, Mr. DiCarlo,” she added after a glance at his credit card. “Believe me, your aunt’s going to love you come Christmas morning.”
“I’m sure you’re right. I notice you also carry art.”
“Some. Mostly posters and old family portraits from estate sales.”
“Nothing modern, then? I’m doing some redecorating.”
“Afraid not. We’ve got some stuff piled in the storeroom in back, but I haven’t noticed any paintings.”
While she wrote up his bill, DiCarlo drummed his fingers on the counter and considered. He had to find out who had bought the dog. If it hadn’t been broad daylight, with a wide display window at his back, he might have stuck his gun under the clerk’s pretty chin and forced her to look up the information for him.
Of course, then he’d have to kill her.
He glanced at the window behind him. There wasn’t much traffic, vehicular or pedestrian. But he shook his head. A young girl wrapped in a parka zoomed by on Rollerblades. It wasn’t worth the risk.
“Just sign here.” Terri passed him the sales slip and his card. “You’re all set, Mr. DiCarlo. I hope you and your aunt have a terrific Christmas.”
Because she watched him through the window, DiCarlo set the box carefully in the trunk of the car, then waved cheerfully before climbing in. He slid smoothly away from the curb.
He’d go somewhere for a late lunch. When it was dark, when the shop was empty, he’d be back.
Dora gave Jed’s door her best businesslike rap. She knew he was going to growl at her—it couldn’t be helped. The fact was, she’d gotten used to the way he snarled and spat. She didn’t look forward to it, but she’d gotten used to it.
He didn’t disappoint her.
His short-sleeved sweatshirt was damp with sweat. His forearms glistened with it. She might have taken a moment to admire the basic masculinity, but she was too busy studying the scowl on his face.
Jed gripped the ends of the towel he’d hooked around his neck. “What do you want now?”
“Sorry to disturb you.” She peeked over his shoulder and spotted his weight equipment scattered over the living area. “When you’re so involved with building muscles, but my phone’s out of order. I need to make a call.”
“There’s a phone booth on the corner.”
“You’re such a sweet guy, Skimmerhorn. Why hasn’t some lucky woman snapped you up?”
“I beat them off with a stick.”
“Oh, I bet you do. Be a pal. It’s a local call.”
For a minute, she thought he was going to shut the door in her face. Again. But he swung the door wider and stepped back. “Make it fast,” he told her, and stalked into the kitchen.
To give her privacy? Dora wondered. Hardly. Her judgment proved correct when he came back in glugging Gatorade from the bottle. Dora juggled the phone, swore softly, then dropped the receiver back on the hook.
“Yours is out, too.”
“Not so surprising, since we’re in the same building.” He’d left his door open, as she had. From her apartment he could hear the strains of music. Christmas music this time. But it was something that sounded like a medieval choir, and intrigued rather than annoyed.
Unfortunately, Dora had exactly the same effect on him.
“You always dress like that to talk on the phone?”
She was wearing a slithery jumpsuit in silver with strappy spiked heels. A chain of stars hung at each ear. “I have a couple of parties to drop in on. How about you? Are you spending Christmas Eve lifting weights?”
“I don’t like parties.”
“No?” She shrugged and the silver silk whispered invitingly at the movement. “I love them. The noise and the food and the gossip. Of course, I enjoy having conversations with other human beings, so that helps.”
“Since I haven’t got any wassail handy to offer you, why don’t you run along?” He tossed the towel aside and picked up a barbell. “Make sure your date doesn’t hit the Christmas punch.”
“I’m not going with anyone, and since I don’t want to have to worry about how often I dip into the Christmas punch, I was calling a cab.” She sat on the arm of the couch, frowning as she watched Jed lift his weights. She shouldn’t have felt sorry for him, she mused. He was the last person on earth that inspired sympathy. And yet she hated to imagine him spending the evening alone, with barbells. “Why don’t you come with me?”
The long, silent look he sent her had her hurrying on.
“It’s not a proposition, Skimmerhorn. Just a couple of parties where you hang out and make nice.”
“I don’t make nice.”
“I can see you’re rusty, but it is Christmas Eve. A time of fellowship. Good will among men. You might have heard of it.”
“I heard rumors.”
Dora waited a beat. “You forgot bah-humbug.”
“Take off, Conroy.”
“Well, that’s a step up from this morning. People will say we’re in love.” She sighed, rose. “Enjoy your sweat, Skimmerhorn, and the coal I’m sure Santa’s going to leave in your stocking.” She stopped, tilted her head. “What’s that noise?”
“What noise?”
“That.” Her eyes narrowed in concentration. “Oh boy. Don’t tell me we do have mice.”
He lowered the barbell and listened. “Someone down in the shop.”
“What?”
“In the shop,” he repeated. “The sound carries up through the vent. Don’t you know your own building, Conroy?”
“I’m not over here that much, and not when the shop’s open.” She started to dismiss it, then froze. “But the shop’s not open.” Her voice had lowered to a stage whisper. “There’s no one down there.”
“Somebody is.”
“No.” Her hand slid up to rub at the nerves in her throat. “We closed hours ago. Terri left by three-thirty.”
“So she came back.”
“On Christmas Eve? She’s giving one of the parties I’m going to.” Dora’s heels clicked smartly on the floor as she crossed to the door.
“Where are you going?”
“Downstairs, of course. Somebody must have cut the alarm and broken in. If they think they can gather up a sack of goodies from my shop, they’re in for a surprise.”
He swore, ripely, then took her arm, pushed her into a chair. “Stay there.” He strode into the bedroom. Dora was still working out what name to call him when he walked back in, carrying a .38.
Her eyes rounded. “What’s that?”
“It’s a parasol. Stay in here. Lock the door.”
“But—but—”
“Stay.” Jed closed the door behind him. It was probably her assistant, he thought as he moved quickly, silently down the hall. Or her sister, who’d forgotten some package she’d hidden. Or the old man, looking for a bottle.
But there was too much cop in him to take chances. And too much cop to dismiss the fact that the phones were out, and that the sounds coming through the vent had been stealthy, rather than careless.
He reached the door that led down to the storeroom, eased it open. There was no generous spill of light from below. He heard a sound—a drawer closing.
Did she keep cash down there? he wondered, and swore under his breath. Probably. In some old-time canister or cookie jar.
A movement behind him had him braced and pivoting. And swearing again. Dora was three steps back, her eyes swallowing her face, and a barbell hefted in one hand.
Jed jerked a thumb. She shook her head. He curled his hand into a fist. She lifted her chin.
“Idiot,” he muttered.
“Same goes.”
“Stay back, for Christ’s sake.”
He started down, jerking still when the third step groaned under his foot. There was a rapid series of pops, and the wall inches away from his face spat plaster.
Jed crouched, took the rest of the steps in a sprint, rolling when he hit bottom and coming up, weapon drawn in time to see the rear door slam shut. He heard Dora clattering down after him, shouted for her to stay put.
He hit the door at a run, went through low. The cold air bit into his lungs like slivers of ice. But his blood was hot. The sound of running footsteps echoed off to the right. Ignoring Dora’s frantic demands to stop, he raced after them.
It was instinct and half a lifetime of training. After he’d run about two blocks, he heard the roar of an engine, the squeal of tires. He knew he’d lost his quarry.
He ran on for another half a block, on the off chance that he could catch a glimpse of the car. When he returned to Dora he found her standing in the center of the small gravel lot, shivering.
“Get inside.”
Her fear had already turned to anger. “Your face is bleeding,” she snapped.
“Yeah?” He brushed at his cheek experimentally, and his fingers came away wet. “The plaster must have nipped it.” He looked down at the barbell she still carried. “And what were you going to do with that?”
“When he grabbed you and wrestled you to the ground, I was going to hit him with it.” She felt some small relief when he tucked the gun into the back of his sweatpants. “Weren’t you supposed to call for backup or something?”
“I’m not a cop anymore.”
Yes, you are, she thought. She might not have had much experience with the preservers of law and order, but he’d had cop in his eyes, in his moves, even in his voice. Saying nothing, she followed him toward the rear entrance of the shop.
“Ever heard of security systems?”
“I have one. It’s supposed to clang like hell if anyone tries to get in.”
He only grunted and, instead of going inside, hunted up boxes and wires. “Mickey Mouse,” Jed said in disgust after one quick look at the mechanism.
She pouted a little, brushing her bangs aside. “The guy who sold it to me didn’t think so.”
“The guy who sold it to you was probably laughing his ass off when he installed it. All you have to do is cut a couple wires.” He held out the frayed ends to demonstrate. “He took out the phone for good measure. He’d have seen by the lights that there was somebody upstairs.”
“Then he was stupid, wasn’t he?” Her teeth were chattering. “I mean, he should have waited until we were out, or asleep, then he could have walked in and stolen me blind.”
“Maybe he was in a hurry. Don’t you have a coat or something. Your nose is getting red.”
Insulted, she rubbed it. “Silly of me not to have thought to grab my wrap. What was that noise right before you took your heroic flight downstairs? It sounded like balloons popping.”
“Silencer.” Jed checked his pocket for loose change.
“Silencer?” The word came out on a squeak as she grabbed his arm. “Like in gangster movies? He was shooting at you?”
“I don’t think it was personal. Got a quarter on you? We’d better call this in.”
Her hands slid away from his arm. The color the cold had slapped into her cheeks drained away. Jed watched her pupils dilate.
“If you faint on me, I’m really going to get pissed off.” He grabbed her chin, gave her head a little shake. “It’s over now. He’s gone. Okay?”
“Your face is bleeding,” she said dully.
“You already told me that.”
“He could have shot you.”
“I could have been spending the night with an exotic dancer. Shows you how far ‘could have’ is from reality. How about that quarter?”
“I don’t . . .” Automatically, she checked her pockets. “I have a phone in my van.”
“Of course you do.” He strode over to her van, shaking his head when he found it unlocked.
“There’s nothing in it,” she began, huffing. It pleased him to see her color was back.
“Except a phone, a stereo tape deck.” He lifted a brow. “A Fuzzbuster.”
“It was a gift.” She folded her arms.
“Right.” He punched in Brent’s number and waited two rings.
“Merry Christmas!”
“Hi, Mary Pat.” He could hear children yelling in the background over a forceful recording of “Jingle Bells.” “I need to talk to Brent for a minute.”
“Jed. You’re not calling to make some lame excuse about tomorrow? I swear I’ll come drag you out here myself.”
“No, I’ll be there.”
“Two o’clock sharp.”
“I’ll set my watch. MP, is Brent around?”
“Right here making his world-famous sausage stuffing. Hang on.”
There was a clatter. “Jingle Bells” gave way to “Rudolf.” “Hey, Captain. Merry, merry.”
“Sorry to bust in on your cooking, but we had a little problem over here.”
“Jody, let go of that cat! What sort of problem?”
“Break-in. The shop below the apartment.”
“They get anything?”
“I have to have her check.” He brushed wind-tossed hair from his face and watched Dora shiver. “Took a couple of pops at me. Used a silencer.”
“Shit. You hit?”
“No.” He checked his cheek again. The bleeding was nearly stopped. “He had a car close. From the sound of the engine, it wasn’t an economy.”
“Sit tight, Kimo Sabe. I’ll call it in and be on my way.”
“Thanks.” He hung up and looked at Dora, who was dancing from foot to foot in a fruitless effort to keep warm. “Maybe you’d better break out that brandy again. Come on.” Because her hands were frozen, he took them, warming them automatically as they walked back to the shop. “You can take a look around, see if anything is missing.”
“I’m not supposed to touch anything, right?”
“You keep up with the cop shows.”
“Can we close the door?”
“Sure.” He took a brief glance at the jimmied lock, then closed out the cold. After he’d switched on the lights, he simply stood and absorbed.
The storeroom was crammed. On one wall, boxes were stacked from floor to ceiling. Shelves held uncrated merchandise in no sort of order he could discern. There were two four-drawer file cabinets shoved into a corner. The top of each was piled with more boxes.
There was a desk, which seemed to be an island of sanity. It held a phone, a lamp, a porcelain pitcher stuffed with pencils and pens, and a bust of Beethoven, which served as a paperweight.
“Nothing’s gone,” she said.
“How can you tell?”
“I know my inventory. You must have scared him off.” She walked over to the shelves and tapped what looked to Jed to be an old perfume or lotion bottle. “This Daum Nancy is worth well over a thousand. This Castelli plate nearly that much. And this.” She took down a box with a picture of a child’s toy on it.
“Nando? A kid’s robot?”
“Boxed, it’s worth easily two thousand to a collector.” She sniffed and replaced it.
“And you just leave this stuff out?”
“I have a security system. Had one,” she muttered. “I can hardly drag all my stock into a vault every night.”
“What about cash?”
“We deposit everything but about a hundred in small bills and change every night.” She walked over to the desk, opened the top drawer. She took out an envelope, flipped through the bills inside. “Here it is. Like I said, you must have scared him off.” She stepped away and heard a paper rustle under her foot. Bending down, she scooped it up. “Charge ticket,” she told Jed. “Funny, this would have been filed.”
“Let’s see.” He snatched it out of her hand. “Timothy O’Malley. Five-fifty and tax on December twenty-first. For saltcellars?”
“His wife collects.”
“Five hundred for salt shakers?”
“Cellars,” Dora corrected, and snatched the receipt back. “Peasant.”
“Bloodsucker.”
Unamused, she turned to replace the receipt in its file. “Look at this!” she demanded. “These drawers are a mess.”
He came to peer over her shoulder. “They’re not supposed to be?”
“Of course not. I keep very careful records. The IRS terrifies me the same as they terrify all good Americans. And Lea spent a week purging and updating these files last month.”
“So he was after something in your files. What do you keep in here?”
“Nothing of value. Receipts, invoices, mailing lists, inventory printout, delivery sheets. Business stuff.” Baffled, she ran a hand through her hair. The stars dangling from her ears sparkled in the light. “There’s no reason for anyone to break in here for paperwork. A crazed IRS agent? A psychopathic accountant?”
As soon as she’d said it, Dora bit her tongue.
“What was that jerk’s name the other night?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Andrew would never do anything like this.”
“Didn’t you say he was an accountant?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“And you fired him?”
“That’s hardly any reason to—”
“Andrew what?”
She blew out a long breath, fluttering her bangs. “I’ll give you his name, his address, his phone number, then you can go do cop things like harass him for his alibi on the night in question.”
“I’m not a cop.”
“If it looks like a cop, sounds like a cop”—she sniffed at him—“smells like a cop . . .”
“How would you know what a cop smells like?”
She angled her chin. “Gun oil and sweat. Come to think of it, you even taste like a cop.”
“How’s that?”
“I don’t know.” Very deliberately she dropped her gaze to his mouth, then lifted it slowly. “Tough, authoritative, just a little bit mean.”
“I can be meaner.” He edged closer so that she was trapped between him and the file cabinet.
“I figured that. Did I tell you that I’ve always had this problem with authority? Goes all the way back to my elementary-school days when I bucked Miss Teesworthy over quiet time.”
He pressed her back. “You didn’t mention it.” No gun oil and sweat here, he realized. It seemed the whole room smelled like Dora, that hot, spicy scent that made a man’s mouth water.
“I do,” she continued. “That’s one of the reasons I started my own business. I hate taking orders.”
“You’re lousy at taking them. I told you to stay put.”
“I had this driving need to stay close to the man with the gun.” She lifted her hand, rubbed her thumb over the cut on his cheek. “You scared me.”
“You didn’t get scared until it was over.”
“No, I was scared all along. Were you?”
“No. I love having people shoot at me.”
“Then this is probably just a reaction we’re having.” She slid her arms around his neck, found the fit to her liking. “You know, from the shock.”
“I told you to back off.”
“So push me away.” Her lips curved. “I dare you.”
They were still curved when his mouth came down. She expected him to be rough, and she was ready for it. His body slammed hers back into the file cabinet. The handles dug into her back, but she was too busy gasping with pleasure to notice the discomfort.
He knew it was a mistake. Even as he steeped himself with her, he knew. Somehow she’d already dug a hook into his mind he’d been unable to shake loose. Now she was trembling against him, making soft little sounds of shocked arousal deep in her throat. And she tasted—God she tasted every bit as hot and sweet as she smelled.
It had been so long, so very long since he’d allowed himself to tumble into that dark, soft oblivion of woman.
He drew back, wanting to clear his head, but she fisted both of her hands in his hair and pulled him against her. “More,” she murmured as her mouth ravaged his. “I always want more.”
With him she could have more. She knew it. With him there would be no vague sense of the incomplete. She could feast and be filled, and still have more.
For one wild moment he considered taking her there, on the floor of the cramped, dusty storeroom with gun smoke still fading from the air. Perhaps he would have, perhaps he would have had no choice, but he was still sane enough to hear the rattle at the door upstairs, and the spit of gravel under tires outside.
“The troops are here.” He took Dora by the shoulders and set her firmly aside. She saw in his eyes what he would continue to deny. He was a cop again. “Why don’t you go put on some coffee, Conroy? It doesn’t look like you’re going to make your parties after all.”
She stared up the stairs, keeping her back to him when she spoke. “And that’s it?”
“Yeah.” He wished violently for the cigarettes he’d left upstairs. “That’s it.”