“That was the plan when we formed the practice.”
“Do you have kids of your own?”
She hesitated, then shook her head. “Someday, hopefully.”
“What about Mr. Charbonneau? Is he a doctor, too?”
“Mr. Surrey.”
“Pardon?”
“My husband’s name is Jeff Surrey. When we married I was already Dr. Charbonneau. For professional reasons, it seemed best not to change my name.”
He didn’t remark on that, but his eyebrows came together in a half-frown. “What does he do for a living?”
“He’s a money manager. Investments. Futures.”
“Like for rich people?”
“I suppose some of his clients are well-to-do.”
“You don’t know?”
“He doesn’t discuss his clients’ money matters with me.”
“Right. He wouldn’t.”
She bit off another corner of the cracker. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“What do you do?”
He looked across at her and, with all seriousness, said, “Live.”
Chapter 3
Live.
He wasn’t being glib, and Emory sensed that he didn’t intend to elaborate. He held her gaze for a moment, then set his spoon in his empty bowl and pushed back his chair. He carried his utensils to the sink. Returning to the table, he politely asked if she wanted any more crackers.
“No, but I’ll keep the Coke.”
While he set about washing dishes, she excused herself. Treading carefully to keep the walls in place and the floor from undulating, she made her way into the bathroom. The space heater was the old-fashioned kind like her great-grandmother had had. Live blue flames burned against blackened ceramic grates.
She used the toilet, washed her face and hands, and rinsed her mouth out with a dab of toothpaste squeeze
d from the tube she found in the medicine cabinet above the sink. Also in the cabinet were a bottle of peroxide, a razor and can of shaving cream, a box of Band-Aids, a jar of multivitamins, and a hairbrush.
The shower stall was made of tin. The wire rack hanging from the shower head contained only a bar of soap and a bottle of shampoo. She longed to wash the blood out of her hair but didn’t for fear of reopening the cut on her scalp. The goose egg beneath it hadn’t gotten any larger, but any pressure she applied caused blow darts of pain.
She couldn’t resist peeking into the small cupboard. On the shelving inside it, folded towels and washcloths were neatly stacked. It also stored rolls of toilet tissue, bars of soap, and cleaning supplies.
Out of the ordinary were the boxes of bullets.
They were on the highest shelf, labeled according to caliber. She had to stand on tiptoe to lift one down. She raised the lid. In the glow of the light fixture above the sink, the shells looked large, long, and lethal.
She quickly closed the box and replaced it exactly as she’d found it, wondering where he kept the guns that corresponded to his arsenal of ammunition.