“My God,” he said, putting the pieces together. “Gloria.”
“That schedule of hers is too light; it was never like that when I knew her. Gloria could handle three or four appointments a day, and she usually did. Four appointments in a week? Five? It didn’t hit me at first, but it isn’t the kind of schedule she used to handle. And, James, she needed money.”
He ran a hand through his hair, rumpling it. “It explains why she took the job with the Dubbses. If she was having problems with her powers, she was funding her own retirement.”
My heart was racing in my chest. I had never put the thought into words before, that my powers could leave me. It was terrifying, unfamiliar—and yet part of it was so exciting I could barely begin to fathom it. What would I be if I was not The Fantastique? What would I do if I couldn’t see the dead? I couldn’t be normal—I could never be normal. And yet . . .
“I suppose,” I said slowly, “you’re going to miss your chance. To do tests on me. If you want to do tests on me, that is.”
“Is that an offer?” he asked. But then he shook his head. “Don’t answer that. I’m not going to test you, Ellie. I don’t think I’m going to do that work ever again.” He leaned over me and his scent came to me like a drug, clean male sweat and faint laundry soap from the sheets we’d rumpled. “I suppose I should spend the rest of the night trying to convince you to abandon this plan, that you shouldn’t put yourself in danger, that you’re a defenseless female and you should let us manly types take care of this sort of business.”
I took in a luxurious breath of him. “And I should spend the rest of the night asking how many girls you’ve brought here and whether they were pretty, and wondering if I’m special.”
He made a sound and the bed shook for a second; I realized it was the quiet vibration of laughter. James Hawley was laughing. “You’re not really going to ask that, are you?”
I thought it over. “No.”
“How brave and modern of you.” He leaned over me further and kissed me just behind the ear, slow and soft, his breath warm on my skin. It was gentle, and it sent a shock straight down my body. “The answers are none, no, and yes, you are. Fine, then. We’ll do it your way. I’m coming with you tomorrow,” he said.
“I know,” I replied, sliding an arm around his neck. “Now hush.” And we did not talk for a long, long time.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
My street in St. John’s Wood was quiet when I arrived home the next morning. The rain had moved off at dawn, leaving the pavements soaked and empty, the clouds breaking up in ragged pieces. The husbands on my street had gone off to work in the city, and the wives were home behind their curtains, doubtlessly staring in disapproving curiosity at the guest who waited on my doorstep.
Fitzroy Todd wore an impeccably tailored evening jacket, now rumpled and damp. His tie was undone, the top buttons of his shirt open. Dark stubble shadowed his jaw. He lounged on my front doorstep as if he owned the street, his dark-clad legs sprawled over the cobblestones of my front walk, his feet in their once shined shoes crossed negligently at the ankles. His hair was messy and he looked as if he’d spent the night in a sewer. And yet when he saw me, he laughed.
“Well, good morning!” he said.
I came up my front walk and stood by his feet. “What do you want?”
He laughed at me again, and he didn’t move. “Ellie Winter,” he said. “I do believe you’ve been out all night.”
“God, are you still drunk? It’s nine o’clock in the morning.”
“And I was drinking until six. It will wear off soon, darling.” He looked me up and down, assessing, a half grin on his face. “You’ve done a good job of cleaning up, I must admit, but unless I’m very much mistaken you’re wearing yesterday’s clothes. I can always tell when a girl is wearing yesterday’s clothes.”
I tilted my head, surprised to find I wasn’t the least bit embarrassed. A night as good as the one I’d had seemed to have its benefits. “I didn’t take you for a prude.”
“God, I couldn’t be happier. You’ll get no judgment from me.”
I looked down the street. Three doors down, a curtain twitched in a window. “Come inside,” I told him. “My neighbors hate me already.”
He followed me into the house. “This is very nice, in a bourgeois sort of way.”
“Shut it, you snob,” I said. “You can sit in the kitchen, but if you think I’m making you coffee, you can think again.”
“Ellie!” he cried, pleased. “That’s the girl I remember. That sharp tongue, and always a lot of jazz in her. We missed you, you know.”
“I was always the wet blanket, and you know it perfectly,” I replied. Pickwick was in the kitchen; my daily woman must have dropped him off early. He looked rested and well fed, but I opened the door and let him out into the back garden just in case. “Now sit on that chair there and stop trying to flatter me. What do you want?”
Fitz made no comment about the dog—he was too caught up in his own problems, as usual. He sat at the table, and I had to admit that in the harsh morning light his years of dissolution didn’t sit on him very well. His face looked lined and pale from too many dark nightclubs, and, even more surprisingly, there seemed to be a smell about him, as if he’d passed out in something awful. The Fitz I knew may have been somewhat—all right, terribly—flawed, but he had always been impeccably groomed.
He put his hands on the table, his jocular manner draining away. “Well, Ellie, I suppose I’ll get to it.” He rubbed a hand up and down his face. “I seem to be in a small spot of trouble.”
I looked through my cupboards, trying to find something to put out in case Pickwick was hungry. “What is it?”
“I suppose you may have heard—Ramona died. She was murdered.”