Low Pressure

She took the card. “I’ll call him.”

“First, come into the kitchen.”

“What’s in there? More damage?”

“No. I’m hungry.”

Five minutes later they had assembled a lunch of peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches and glasses of iced tea. He ripped open a bag of Fritos he’d found in the pantry, and when she declined the chips, he dug in.

Around a bite, he asked, “Any word from Houston?”

“I called Olivia on the drive here. Daddy opted for another round of chemo. They’re clinging to the hope it will do some good.”

“Did you tell her about your house?”

“No, I didn’t want to add to her worry. I did tell her about Van Durbin, though. I hated to, but at least I prepared them. They won’t be caught off guard by his column tomorrow.”

“Tell her about my airplane?”

“No.”

“So, as far as she knows, we parted company after we landed last night.”

“Actually, when I told her about being accosted by Van Durbin, it slipped out that you were with me.”

“Hmm. I wonder which upset her most, knowing that you’d been bushwhacked, or that I was at your side.”

“Don’t be provoking, Dent.”

“I haven’t provoked anything. Yesterday I was completely professional, but your stepmother has always treated me like a turd in the punch bowl, a contaminant, and yesterday was no exception. Not that I fucking care.”

“That’s the very attitude that’s provoking.”

He could’ve said more on the subject of Olivia, but decided against it. The woman’s husband was dying, after all. Besides, he’d never lost sleep over what Olivia Lyston thought of him, and he didn’t intend to. “How’d she take the news about Van Durbin’s upcoming column?”

“Unhappily.” She pinched off a morsel of bread crust and rolled it between her thumb and finger, studying the forming ball of dough. “I can’t say that I blame her for being upset.”

“If you didn’t want to upset your family, you shouldn’t have published a book that aired their dirty laundry.”

She looked at him with asperity. “I told you why I wrote it.”

“Yeah, so you could make a bad period in your life tangible, then wad it up, throw it away, and forget it. Good therapy for you, maybe. But it sucks for everybody else involved. Why didn’t you pour your heart out in a journal, then lock it up and throw away the key, or bury it in the backyard, or drop it into the ocean? Why’d you have to turn your therapy into a best seller?”

Pushing his empty plate aside, he placed his forearms on the edge of the table and leaned across it toward her. “Those of us who lived the story are a bit vexed to find ourselves in your spotlight, A.k.a.”

She came out of her chair. “So you’ve said. I don’t need to hear it again.”

He stood up and rounded the table to stand toe-to-toe with her. “Yeah, you do. Because somebody has moved past vexed. He’s good and truly pissed off. And he’s gonna be even more pissed off when it comes out tomorrow that maybe the case wasn’t as tightly sewn up as believed. Susan’s murder is going to be given a good, hard second look. I’ve got a hunch that’s not going to sit well with whoever scrawled that warning on your wall.”

She was staring up at him in defiance and denial of every word.

“You think I’m wrong?” he asked.

She opened her mouth to speak, but suddenly the starch went out of her. She lowered her head and rubbed her temples with her fingertips. “I wish you were, but I don’t think you are.”

He backed down. “Okay,” he said in a softer voice, “who’s the mystery guest?”

“I don’t know.”