I walked through the hospital halls in the thin, short towel. My personal cop danced attendance behind me, making strangled sounds of protest at my state of undress.
Inside my room I paused, forcing myself to appear steady. A bag lay on the side table, one that hadn’t been there before. Rape Victim Advocates, it said. Gee, what rape victim wouldn’t want to carry this around? At least the puffy shape of the bag meant it contained clothes.
“Ask and you shall receive,” I said to him where he hovered at the open door. I held the bag up to show him.
His cheeks flaming red, he shut the door just before I let the towel drop.
I dressed in the oversize sweats from the bag, trying not to let the memories take me. My little therapy session with the good detective had helped, but it wasn’t magic.
After a meek knock, the cop outside my room, still looking a tad pink, informed me I was to be released. A credible witness had come forward and accounted for my whereabouts in the hours before the blast, though not directly during, which means I likely did not set up the explosion. I refrained from saying I’d already told them that, because it appeared that credible meant someone not affiliated with Philip.
Linda wrapped me in a big bear hug before I could even process her appearance. Her perfume gripped my lungs in a vise even as her arms squeezed my body, but I welcomed it all. When she finally pulled back, I gasped. And then coughed as I inhaled a fog of perfume.
She wore a wine-colored suit with a rose-blush blouse and matching heels. Her hair had been pulled back into some sort of updo and topped with a maroon cap. Between her clothes and her makeup, she exuded glamour, like some sort of old-fashioned movie star.
“You look fabulous,” I said. “Don’t tell me you got all dolled up for me.”
“Of course not,” she said as she ushered me down the hallway. She lowered her voice as if to impart a secret. “It’s the policemen, dear. I know it goes against all those liberation ideas you young girls have, but sometimes you have to work what you got.”
Linked arm in arm, we took the elevator down. “How did you know to come get me?”
“A little birdie called and told me to go down to the station and make a statement. He told me who to talk to, what to say, and he was very specific. After that I came here to bring you home.”
A little birdie named Detective Cameron was my guess.
The sliding doors opened, and we entered the parking lot. Her necklace glinted in the sunlight, almost blinding me. “Are those real diamonds?” I asked, gawking at the rocks the size of dimes.
“Of course,” she said. “I told you William did well doing elevator service. When he died, his company had contracts with all the big skyscraper buildings and just a whole bunch of employees. I sold it then, of course, but he did real well for himself, he did.”
I could only laugh at that. Done well, my ass. Maybe it was, like she’d said, a happy story after all.
On the ride home Linda said, “Let me tell you a story.”
I shot her a dubious look.
“Now, now,” she said. “Don’t you worry. This story does have a happy ending. It’s not even a real story, it’s made-up. Like a fairy tale, only shorter.”
“All right,” I fake grumbled.
“So one day there was this fox, see, and a scorpion,” she said.
I groaned. I knew this story already. And it did not have a happy ending.
“Hush, now,” she admonished. “Well, the scorpion, she wants to cross the river, but she can’t swim. So the fox, being a gentleman fox, offers to take her across. But he’s worried, you know, because she stings. But she says, now, you’ll be doing me a favor by taking me across, so why would I sting you?”
She paused the story to accelerate through a yellow-red light. I gripped the leather seats, probably leaving permanent nail marks.
“So the scorpion gets on the fox’s back,” she continued. “And they’re going across the river, when the scorpion stings the fox! And the fox says, why did you do that? And she says, because I’m a scorpion. And every day after that the fox knew what to expect from the scorpion.”
I stared at her.
She smiled.
“I don’t know how to tell you this,” I said, “but that’s not how the story goes.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The fox dies, Linda. And the scorpion. They both drown—that’s the ending.”
“That’s ridiculous,” she said. “If they drowned, then how could the fox ask the scorpion a question?”
“Well.” I considered. “I suppose it’s as they’re drowning.”
“As they’re drowning,” she repeated indignantly. “How long could it take? And why is the fox using his energy chatting when he’s about to drown? Besides, if he died, how could the fox learn his lesson?”
“It was just right then, in those moments, that’s when he—you know what? Never mind. I’m sorry. I think you had it right.”
“Damn straight,” she said as she gunned the accelerator.
It had taken me a minute to catch on, but I hadn’t been lying. I thought Linda had the right of it. It wasn’t the original version. It was better.