The Dangerous Edge of Things - By Tina Whittle Page 0,84
thousand other people.
“Can I ask you something? Not about the case or Gabriella, about you.”
He nodded. Two small travel cases rested behind us, toiletries for me, a satchel of paperwork for him.
“When I was at your desk, I found this magazine, and I couldn’t help wondering…it’s hard to figure out the question I want to ask.”
Trey offered no help whatsoever. I stumbled on.
“Garrity said that after the accident, you bought this car, the apartment, the suits, all of it very different from how you were before. And then I noticed that the GQ magazine dated from when you got out of the hospital, and it had everything in it, just like Garrity described. And I thought, this can’t be a coincidence.”
“It’s not.” He kept his eyes on the road. “But I had to do something. And having a template worked. It still works. The decisions are too hard otherwise.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s hard to explain. Knowing what you like comes from knowing who you are. And I don’t know anymore.”
I’d never considered such a thing. I liked low-slung jeans and chunky boots. Shrimp, but not scallops. The color yellow. How did I know these things?
“Are you mad?”
He frowned. “Why would I be mad?”
“Well, if I had a secret, I’d be mad if someone stumbled onto it.”
“It’s not a secret. It’s just information that I tell very few people.”
“Like Gabriella.”
The mention of her name sounded like a warning bell. Of the two people closest to him in the whole world, one had apparently betrayed him. I pressed on, however.
“Why won’t you admit that she’s up to something?”
He thought about it. “I told you, I need evidence. Her guilt contradicts other facts about her that I already have.”
“So replace the facts.”
“It’s not that easy. I think it used to be, before the accident. Garrity says I had good instincts. He says I was very intuitive. But I’m not anymore. I can sort fact from fiction, but I can’t figure out what they mean.” He looked at the glove compartment. “Like those. They used to mean something to me. I keep thinking I’ll remember what, but I never do.”
I remembered then, from the car chase. “The rosary beads?”
“They were my mother’s. Garrity was looking for them for the funeral. He thinks they were lost in the accident.”
His voice was steady and calm, with no hint of emotion, but I felt the impact nonetheless.
I fingered the glove compartment handle. “May I?”
He nodded, and I took them out. They were cool to the touch, small round stones of gray-green marble with a finely chased silver crucifix.
“Connemara marble,” he said, “from Ireland. That’s where my grandparents were born. County Donegal.”
I held them in my hand, and they felt like faith is supposed to feel—solid, soothing, tangible. He was still looking straight ahead, his hands resting lightly on the wheel.
“I’m trying to explain something to you,” he said, “and I can’t. It’s about those, and Gabriella, and about the accident itself, but…I’m looking for a word.”
I shook my head. “There isn’t one. It’s too much for words.”
He thought about that.
“Yes,” he said finally. “Perhaps you’re right.”
Chapter 44
Beaumont Waterway rose out of nowhere, this colossal white-columned spread that bloomed on the edge of Lake Oconee like a crop of enormous mushrooms. Inside, the main hall was decorated with muscular grandeur—stag-horn chandeliers, gray stone floors, and a massive fireplace I could have stood in.
Phoenix had two suites reserved for its agents. Trey gave me the key to one and he took the other. I opened it to find my garment bag hung on the bathroom door and a fully stocked bar with fresh ice. Through the patio doors, the lake rippled silver in the clear diffuse light. I opened them, and the astringent scent of pine blew in.
Down at the lake edge, segregated from the main complex, I saw the Beaumonts’ private cabin. Charley loitered on the wrap-around porch, talking on her cell phone. She wore a white summer sweater and Jackie O sunglasses. Beside the pool, Mark enjoyed a drink with Marisa underneath a green canvas umbrella. Landon stood at her elbow, sipping something amber and neat. And there was my brother, spic and span in his Brooks Brothers casual, pouring a red wine.
Everyone but Gabriella.
I watched for several minutes, the casual glamour of it more fascinating than I cared to admit, until I heard a soft knock on my door. I turned and saw Trey. Just as I’d suspected, he was the very man tuxedos were created for,