“Well, why didn’t you just say so?” she huffed. “So, no Garden Gate. No color at all, from what you’re saying. I have to tell you this comes as a disappointment. I was really hoping to get the nursery done today.”
“Lady, I don’t think—”
“The truth is, David should really be the one doing this, but oh no, he has to go off and save the world and leave me stuck in the house like a prisoner. And where the hell is Yolanda? Pardon my French. You know, after everything I’ve done for her, I’d expect a little consideration. Even just a call.”
David. Yolanda. Who were these people? It was all completely baffling, and not a little weird, but one thing was obvious: this poor woman was completely alone. Unless Grey found a way to get her out of here, she wouldn’t last long.
“Maybe you could just paint it white,” he offered. “I’m sure they got lots of that.”
She looked at him skeptically. “Why would I want to paint it white?”
“They say white goes with anything, right?” For the love of God, listen to him; he sounded like one of those fags on TV. “You can do anything with white. Maybe add something else with color in the room. The curtains and stuff.”
She hesitated. “I don’t know. White does seem a little plain. On the other hand, I did want to get the painting done today.”
“Exactly,” Grey said, and did his best to smile. “That’s just what I’m saying. You can paint it white, then figure out the rest when you see how it looks. That’s what I’d recommend.”
“And white does go with anything. You’re correct about that.”
“You said it was a nursery, right? So maybe later you could add a border, to jazz it up a little. You know, like bunnies or something.”
“Bunnies, you say?”
Grey swallowed. Where had that come from? Bunnies were the glow-sticks’ all-time favorite food. He’d watched Zero gobble them down by the cartload.
“Sure,” he managed. “Everybody likes bunnies.”
He could see the idea taking hold of her. Which raised another question. Assuming the woman agreed to leave, what then? He could hardly let her go off on her own. He also wondered just how pregnant she was. Five months? Six? He wasn’t a good judge of these things.
“Well, I think you really may have something there,” the woman said with a nod from her fine-boned chin. “We really seem to be on the same wavelength, Mr. Grey.”
“It’s Lawrence,” he said.
Smiling, she held out her hand. “Call me Lila.”
* * *
It wasn’t until he was sitting in the woman’s Volvo—Lila had actually left a wad of cash at one of the registers, with a note promising to return—that Grey realized that somewhere between his carrying the cans to the car and loading them into the cargo area, she had successfully maneuvered him into agreeing to paint the nursery. He didn’t recall actually doing this; it just kind of happened, and the next thing he knew they were driving away, the woman steering the Volvo through the abandoned city, past wrecked cars and bloated bodies, overturned Army trucks and the still-smoking rubble of gutted apartment complexes. “Really,” she remarked, guiding the station wagon around the burned-out hulk of a FedEx delivery truck with barely a glance, “you’d think people would have the sense to call a wrecker and not just leave their cars sitting in the road.” She also chattered on about the nursery (he’d hit pay dirt with the bunnies), tucking in more snide asides about David, who Grey figured was her husband. Grey guessed the man had gone off somewhere, leaving her alone in her house. Based on the things he’d seen, it seemed likely he’d gotten himself killed. Maybe the woman had been crazy before, but Grey didn’t think so. Something bad had happened to her, really bad. There was a name for this, he knew. Post-traumatic something. Basically the woman knew but didn’t know, and her mind, in its terrified state, was protecting her from the truth—a truth that, sooner or later, Grey would have to tell her.
They arrived at the house, a big brick Tudor that seemed to soar above the street. He’d already guessed the woman was well-off from the way she’d spoken to him, but this was something else. Grey retrieved the supplies from the Volvo’s cargo area—in addition to the paint, she’d selected a package of rollers,