I wait with the younger Mrs Armand until she enters the lift with a blank, dazed expression. She is digging frantically into her handbag as the doors slide shut, not looking at me and offering no farewell.
I nod at the two guards flanking the penthouse entrance as I pass them, shutting the door soundlessly. Alone, I can admit that the scene I’ve just witnessed has shaken me to the core.
I cannot reconcile the woman who ran from Mr Black in the heart of Midtown with the wife clinging lovingly to him in the bedroom. The reactions are so outrageously different as to defy logic.
Thrusting aside my disquiet, I traverse the long, mirrored hallway to Mrs Black’s bedroom. My employer now stands in the farthest, darkest corner. He stares at the two women, who speak in hushed tones, and doesn’t acknowledge my return, his attention riveted, his stance wide and arms crossed. Commanding. Aggressive. The nurse, Frank, stands behind and near the doctor, at the ready. I call upon years of experience to disappear into my surroundings.
Dr Hamid holds one finger up, moving it from side to side as Lily’s gaze follows. It is disconcerting to see Mrs Black looking so artfully groomed as if she’s just indulged in a short midday nap instead of spending weeks unconscious.
She is, without question, the most ravishing creature I have ever seen. The photo Mr Black treasures is a shadow of the dynamism present in the living, breathing woman.
Beyond that staggering beauty, Lily is fearfully composed while facing a situation that would frighten the wits out of damn near anyone. She is in an unfamiliar place with unfamiliar people. Even her husband must seem a stranger; their separation has been lengthy and his evolution dramatic. And yet it was the younger Mrs Armand who screamed in shock.
“How many fingers am I holding up?” the doctor asks.
“Two.”
“And now?”
“Still two. Where am I?”
“You’re at home. Can you tell me your name?”
“Lily Rebecca Yates. Whose home?” She looks at Mr Black. “Kane …?”
“Ours,” he answers gruffly.
A look of wonder sweeps over her face, her eyes luminous with tears. “Ours,” she repeats in a whisper.
As I have, Dr Hamid has paused at hearing Lily’s maiden name. I am also taken aback by her voice. From the looks of her, I expected her to speak in husky flavours of smoke and Scotch. Instead, her tone is high and girlish, with the faintest hint of an underlying throatiness. I’ve never heard anything like it, yet I respond with surprising fervour. I want to listen to her speak at length, to have the time to catalogue the nuances of a voice that by rights should irritate but delights instead.
“Do you always give your maiden name?” the doctor asks.
Lily blinks slowly, then lifts her left hand and studies the ring there. She swallows visibly before she answers, “I’m not married.”
A low growl rumbles from my employer’s chest.
“It’s okay,” Dr Hamid says firmly. “There are no wrong answers. How old are you, Lily?”
“Twenty-seven.”
Mr Black stiffens beside me. The doctor glances at Frank for confirmation, whose head shakes in denial.
The doctor settles deeper into her perch on the edge of the bed. “Do you remember the accident?”
“Accident?”
“You were hit by a car about a month ago.”
Lily is too still for a long moment, then asks, “What’s the date today?”
I catch the doctor’s gaze as she glances at Frank after answering. Her full lips are pursed, her brow furrowed. All of us turn our heads to look at Mr Black. He is ashen and tense, so much so that I could almost swear the air vibrates around him.
Lily studies him, too. Then her hand – laden with a priceless stone that is deeply purple indoors and the same verdant hue as her eyes in sunlight – reaches out to her husband, trembling. “Kane …”
He stands unmoving for a long, fraught minute. Then his arms drop to his sides, and he takes a jerky step towards the bed as if resisting a lure and failing.
I’m at a loss for what to do when he pivots abruptly and exits the room with long, fast strides.