“I always forget,” Simon said, giving his head a slight shake, sending water droplets everywhere. “At least I remembered food.” The doorman walked ahead and pushed the button for his elevator. As he stepped inside, Simon said, “Have a good evening, Harry.”
“You too, sir. Make sure you dry off, before you catch a chill.”
As the elevator opened up at the penthouse, Simon wondered why everybody was so concerned about his health. He hadn’t been sick in decades. He wasn’t exactly sure why, but again he had learned a lot of tricks a long time ago, and nobody would understand. So it was a trade-off.
Life itself was a mystery, but certain corners of it he definitely knew how to manipulate. Inside, he put down the take-out food, quickly stripped off his jacket, and loosened his tie. He grabbed a towel, gave his head a light scrub, tossed the towel back on the hook, and he walked to the fridge, where he pulled out an already opened bottle of wine. Popping the cork, he poured himself a hefty glass and then tossed the cork. He’d finish the rest of the bottle tonight.
With his wineglass, he walked over to the table. As he sat down, Mama had given him something like tortillas and nachos or something; he wasn’t exactly sure. Foil packs of something. Tortillas had been in one, and, when he opened up the others, he found raw veggie strips and then meat. He quickly made himself a wrap and tried it.
It was delicious, he was still figuring out the myriad tastes. By the time he hit the middle, he was loving it, and, when he finished with the first one, he was already reaching to make a second one. After he’d had three, he put the rest in the fridge. Then he picked up his phone, walked over to the couch in front of the full-length windows overlooking the city of Vancouver, and sat down with his second glass of wine.
He was tired and still not sleeping well, but at least he hadn’t woken up with any strange woman in his bed—or anybody else for that matter. Just then his phone rang. He glanced at it, winced. His ex-fiancée. He ignored it, and it stopped, but it immediately rang again. This time he reached for it, picked it up, and said, “What do you want?”
“Good evening, Simon. This is Detective Morgan calling.”
He stared down at the phone in confusion. He’d been so damn sure it had been his ex. “Did you just call me a few minutes ago?”
“No,” she said, “calling you once is enough for me, thanks.”
His lips twitched. Just something about her abrasive tone always made him feel better. Which made no sense. “What can I do for you, Detective?” he asked, as he settled into the corner of his couch, with his glass of wine.
“I need details,” she said briskly. “More details.”
“Why? You didn’t believe me in the first place,” he said, stiffening slightly at her words. He felt himself immediately building up walls to push her away, to push it all back. He’d worked hard these last couple nights to not have any more of those damn nightmares and to try and forget her.
“I may have found a connection,” she said, “and I need more details.”
“Connection?”
“A connection between the different kids you’re seeing.”
He sucked in his breath. “What connection?” he asked harshly. “Are you serious?”
“I’m not calling out of joy,” she said sarcastically. “I’m sure you have a pretty damn good idea why I am calling,” she said, “and it’s sure as hell not some social call.”
“That’s too damn bad,” he said lightly, “because I’m pretty sure we’d be really good together.”
“I don’t give a shit,” she said, “because that’s not happening.”
Instantly a vision ripped through him—the two of them hot and sweaty in the sheets. Lust drove right through his groin.
“Cut the bullshit! Can we get back to the question at hand?”
His eyebrows rose, and he felt the smile tugging away at his lips again. “I don’t have any details. Remember? I told you these were just bad dreams.”
“Bad dreams that have disturbingly eerie details,” she snapped. “In your dreams, did you ever see a mark on the wrist of one of the children?”
He frowned and sat up. “What kind of a mark?”
“That’s what I’m asking you.”
“I don’t give a shit if you believe what I’m saying or not, Detective, but I don’t play games.”
“This is a game to you?” she asked. “Something about a child’s life is just one big game to you? I don’t know what the hell makes you tick, and I don’t care—except for these cases. If anything leads you to believe these cases are anything other than a dream, you need to concentrate and get me more details,” she urged.
“I thought you didn’t believe in psychics?”
“I don’t,” she said in a tight voice. “You’re all con artists after people’s money.”