The Blonde

11:54 p.m.

Sheraton Hotel,

Rittenhouse Square East, Room 702

Nice digs, Jack,” Kelly said. “Not sure about the two different levels, though. Makes it look like the beds are in a pit or something. Hey, you okay?”

Jack wanted a bed, in a pit or not. There were two, thank God. Just let me stumble down the stairs, choose the closest, and collapse onto it. He had the chills, bad. A pounding head. He couldn’t see straight, either. Maybe if he was lucky, he’d die soon and it would be over. At least he wouldn’t have to go through with his morning meeting with Donovan Piatt. If he was dead, it wouldn’t matter.

But Kelly held his arm tightly as he tried to make his way to the bed.

“Take it easy, boyo.”

“I need to lie down.”

“Let me help you. It’ll all be over soon.”

Whatever, Jack thought. His stomach was clenched too tightly to care. It was tough enough faking it while walking past the front desk—Kelly had warned him about drawing any more attention to himself than he had to. Again, whatever. His stomach was long emptied, but that didn’t mean it didn’t stop trying.

“Lie back and relax.” She squeezed his left hand reassuringly. “The worst will be over soon. The poison will settle into your blood and your stomach will stop trying to get rid of it.”

“Don’t kill me. I’ve got a family. A little girl.”

God, if Theresa and Callie could see him now. In a hotel room, holding hands with a strange woman. Never mind what it actually was. It was all about how it looked. On top of everything else that had happened over the past few months.

I can’t stand that when you ‘re here, you’re not really here, Theresa had said. Don’t you want to read to your daughter? Or are you still too busy thinking about work?

“Shhhhh. It won’t be so bad. You seem like the kind of guy who knows how to show a lady a good time in a hotel room. Am I right or am I right? A real lady-killer.”

Jack closed his eyes, and drifted away a bit. Yeah, lady-killer, that was him. He tuned back in when he heard her rooting through his overnight bag with her free hand—the one not holding his hand. The bag he’d placed on the floor next to the bed.

“What are you doing?”

He pulled his hand free of hers.

“I thought you’d be a boxer briefs kind of guy. Can’t quite commit to the idea of boxers, can’t go commando, can’t do tighty-whiteys. An excellent compromise all around. But what’s this? All black and gray? Where’s your imagination, Jackie boy? No reds or purples? Not even a safe, conservative blue?”

Jack closed his eyes.

Maybe when he opened his eyes, this would all be gone.

One way or the other.