The Lost (Celestial Blues, Book 2) - By Vicki Pettersson Page 0,22
mouth lifted. “I’m not scared.”
Kit snorted, but sobered quickly as Ms. Howard reentered the room. She’d been gone less than two minutes, and though Kit and Grif automatically stood, she returned to her position behind the desk, and took a seat.
“I’m sorry,” she said, folding her hands, not looking apologetic at all, “but Ms. DiMartino seems to have had a change of heart. She no longer wishes to see you. In fact, her preference is to have no visitors at all for the remainder of her stay.”
Meaning, Grif thought, don’t have her nephew call and try to convince her otherwise. The speed of Ms. Howard’s return indicated she certainly hadn’t tried.
“Did she say why?” Kit asked, hands clasped.
“She doesn’t need a reason,” Ms. Howard said, lifting her chin. “Here at Sierra Vista, we teach our patients ‘no’ is a complete sentence.”
“Of course,” Kit said quickly, though her voice was tighter now. She tried clearing it. “It’s just that we’re . . . disappointed. We were hoping she could help.”
“Ms. DiMartino’s first priority is to help herself. Frankly,” said Ms. Howard, looking pointedly at Grif, “I was surprised she agreed to see you in the first place.”
Maybe he should have given himself a good once-over, Grif thought, frowning. “Why’s that?”
“She’s not that fond of men, Mr. Shaw. She doesn’t trust them, will never abide being alone in their company, and certainly doesn’t consider them friends.”
“Strange,” Grif muttered. “She wasn’t like that when I knew her.”
“Excuse me?” Ms. Howard said, eyes narrowing sharply.
“Nothing,” Kit said quickly, and Grif shifted uncomfortably. Looking all of thirty-three years old, same as when he’d died, he certainly couldn’t explain to Ms. Howard that he’d known the now sixty-two-year-old woman when she was only twelve. “We’re just surprised her nephew didn’t say as much.”
Ms. Howard shrugged. That wasn’t her problem. “I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do.”
“Well, thank you for your time,” Kit said warmly, though Grif just stood and left.
“Why do you bother being polite to such people,” he said when Kit finally caught up to him halfway down the sterile hallway. He gave the double door leading outside a violent push. “You can’t sweeten up vinegar.”
“Because it’s not about the war, darling. It’s about the win.”
Grif stopped dead and looked at her.
Kit stared back. “That means being surly doesn’t help our cause.”
“And being polite does?” he said, resuming his stride, though his anger had deflated and his shoulders slumped.
“Of course. Ms. Howard said Mary Margaret doesn’t like men. That’s you, not me. So being polite keeps the dialogue open. She’ll be out from under Ms. Howard’s eye and thumb in just a few days. I’ll try again then.”
“I don’t know, Kit,” Grif said, reaching the passenger’s side of the car. “Maybe we should let her be. I have no idea what happened to her in the last fifty years, but some people got a reason not to remember the past. Plus, seeing me, like this . . .”
He gestured down the length of his body, indicating all of it—the suit, the shoes, the face that hadn’t aged a day in half a century.
Kit paused, the car door half-open. “Honey, she’s locked up in a mental-health facility, and drugged up to her eyeballs. And that’s when she’s not trying to drown her memories in a bottle. You really think she’s forgotten anything? Take it from someone who’s been there. Mary Margaret’s past is chasing her down.”
Kit began to climb in, but Grif held his hand up over the roof of the car. “Back up. What do you mean you’ve been there?” He pointed back at the sterile building. “You mean . . . there?”
Squinting up into the sun, she sighed. “Not Sierra Vista, but yes. One like it.”
“But you’re . . .” Grif couldn’t help it. He made a face like he’d just swallowed a bitter pill. “Cheery.”
Kit barked out a dry, humorless laugh. “Yes, and I had to make a conscious decision, and do a lot of work, to get that way. Starting when I was seventeen.”
“After your father was killed.”
Kit just nodded as she climbed in the car. Grif was slower, but only because he was putting it all together.
“That’s when the rockabilly thing started, too, right?” he said, once he’d pulled his door shut, angling his body toward hers.
“Yes,” she murmured, and Grif knew the memories were bad, because she didn’t chide him for calling her lifestyle a “thing.”
“Locked up, drugged up . . . shut up.” Though the car was silent, her