“You’ve met Debbie? How is she?” Her voice was tender, as if she were asking after an old friend.
Oh, Debbie! She’s great! Just moved to Des Moines. Married, couple of kids. Sends her love.
Susan glanced over at Archie. He wasn’t looking at the box anymore; he was looking at Gretchen. But other than his eyes, he hadn’t moved a muscle. The brass pillbox glistened in his palm. The sudden tension between them made Susan’s stomach feel rigid.
“I don’t think that I should answer that,” she said. Her voice came out smaller than she had intended. She felt like a teenager. Like she was fourteen again. The feeling made her uncomfortably warm.
“There’s a cemetery,” Gretchen announced. “Off a state highway in Nebraska. We buried Gloria on top of one of the graves. Want to know where it is?”
No one moved for a minute. And then Archie finally looked at Susan. His eyes were glassy. Now I see why you’re high, thought Susan.
“It’s fine,” Archie said. “Really. She likes to revel in what a thorough mess she’s made of my life. We talk about it all the time. You’d think she’d get tired of it after a while.” He set the box back down on the table. He did it gently, like it was bruised. “But it never ceases to entertain her.”
Susan wasn’t sure what fucked-up game the two of them were playing, but she was hoping that Archie had it more under control than it seemed. She shrugged her assent. It was his call. She would play along. “Debbie hates you,” she told Gretchen. “She hates you for murdering the man she knew as her husband.” She glanced at Archie. No reaction. “She thinks he’s dead. And that Archie is someone else now.”
Gretchen looked pleased, her eyes bright, her cheekbones pronounced. “But she still loves him?”
Susan bit her lip. “Yes.”
“And he still loves her. But he can’t be with her. And he can’t be with his two adorable children. Know why?”
“Because of you,” Susan guessed.
“Because of me. And that’s why you’ll never be with him, either, pigeon. Because I’ve ruined him for other women.”
“You’ve ruined me for other human beings, Gretchen,” Archie said wearily. He slid the box off the table and put it back in his pocket, then scooted his chair back from the table and stood.
“Where are you going?” Gretchen asked, her voice betraying her sudden anxiety. Susan watched as her entire posture changed. Her face hardened. Were those crow’s-feet? Gretchen leaned forward toward Archie as if attempting to close the space between them.
“I’m taking a break,” Archie answered, his fingertips still on the table. “I’m not sure that we’re being very productive today.” He looked down at Susan. “Come on,” he said. He took a step back and Gretchen reached up, hands still shackled, and seized his hand.
“The name on the grave is Emma Watson,” she said quickly. “The cemetery is on SR One Hundred, in a little town called Hamilton, eighteen miles west of Lincoln.”
Archie didn’t move. He just stood, staring at his hand in hers. Not pulling away. Like someone gripping a live electrical wire. Susan had no idea what to do. She looked around frantically at the observation window and, as if on cue, Henry Sobol burst into the room. He was at the table in three steps, and he reached a large hand around Gretchen Lowell’s wrist and squeezed it until she winced in pain and let Archie’s hand fall free.
“That’s against the rules,” Henry said between clenched teeth. His face was red and his pulse surged under the thick skin of his neck. “You touch him again and I swear to fuck that I’ll end this bullshit. Bodies or not. Got it?” Gretchen didn’t recoil, didn’t say a word, just looked at him, lips wet with saliva, nostrils flaring, eyes daring him to take a swing at her. Suddenly, she didn’t look beautiful at all.
“It’s fine,” Archie said. His voice was even, perfectly modulated, but Susan noticed that his hands were trembling. “I’m fine.”
Henry looked at Archie, holding his gaze for a moment, and then turned his shaved head back toward Gretchen. He still had his meaty fist around her slender wrist, and for a moment Susan thought he might just snap it in two. Without letting his grip waver an iota, he turned to Archie. “We’ve got the Nebraska state police on their way to that cemetery. We should know something in the next hour.” Then he opened his hand, dropped Gretchen’s wrist, and, without giving her a second glance, turned and walked out the door.
Gretchen smoothed her blond hair with her manacled hands. “I don’t think your friend likes me,” she said to Archie.
Archie sank back into his chair. “You did send him my spleen.”
“And he won’t let me forget it.” She turned back to Susan, all poise and tranquillity, as if the entire encounter had not happened. “You were saying?”
Susan was still reeling. Would it be a show of weakness to vomit? “What?”