Whiskey Beach

Chapter Twelve


ABRA RANG THE BELL FIRST AS MUCH FOR MANNERS AS THE need for a little assistance. When no one answered, she dug out her house key, unlocked the door, then maneuvered her massage table inside. An automatic glance at the alarm panel and its blinking light had her muttering the new code as she punched it in.

“Eli! Are you up there? I could use a little help here.”

After silence, she huffed out a breath, used her table to prop the door open before heading back to her car for the market bags.

She carted them inside, dumped them, muscled her table and tote into the big parlor. Went back for more market bags, carried them into the kitchen.

After she’d put away the fresh groceries, pinned the market receipt to the little bulletin board, she unpacked the container of potato and ham soup she’d made that afternoon, the beer bread she’d baked and, since he apparently had a taste for them, the rest of her chocolate chip cookies.

Rather than hunt him down, she walked back, set up her table, arranged the candles she’d chosen, stirred up the fire, then added a log. Maybe he intended to make an excuse about not wanting or needing his scheduled massage, but he’d have a hard time with that since she had everything in place.

Satisfied with that, she wandered upstairs on the off chance he was too engrossed in his work to hear her, taking a serious nap, in the shower, in the gym.

She didn’t find him, but did find his method of making the bed was hauling up the duvet. She fluffed it, and the pillows—a tidy bed was a restful bed to her way of thinking—folded the sweater he’d dropped on a chair, tossed the socks on the floor beside it in the hamper.

Wandering out, she tried the gym, and took the yoga mat stretched out on the floor as a positive sign. Curious, she poked through his wing of the second floor, then went down again to look around the first. She spotted the legal pad, the empty plate and beer bottle (at least he’d used a coaster) on the fabulous old desk.

“What are you up to, Eli?” She picked up the dish, the bottle as she read the first page of his notes. “Now this is interesting.”

She didn’t know all the names, but followed the lines connecting them, the arrows, the scribbled notes. A few clever sketches scattered through the notes. He had his grandmother’s hand, she realized, recognizing one of Detective Wolfe with devil horns and a sharp-toothed snarl.

As she paged through—he’d obviously spent some time on this, she mused—she found her own name, its connection to Hester, to him, to Vinnie and to Duncan Kirby.

And a sketch of her, too, delighting her. He’d drawn her lounging on the sand at water’s edge, a mermaid’s tail a serpentine curl from her waist.

She trailed her fingertip along the tail before reading on.

He’d done a timeline of the night of Duncan’s death, one that seemed pretty accurate to her own memory of events. And he’d listed the death as between midnight and five a.m.

So the police had talked to him, as they had to her.

That couldn’t have been pleasant. Since his car was out front, he’d be on foot. She’d made soup, baked bread, done a short yoga practice to calm herself down after the police visit. She suspected Eli had vented his tension into the notes. And was likely walking off the rest.

Good for him.

She carried the dish and bottle to the kitchen, then stepped out onto the terrace. Surprised to see the telescope, she moved to it. When she looked through the eyepiece, the lighthouse filled her view.

She couldn’t blame him for that. In fact it made her wish she had a telescope of her own. Hugging her arms against the chill, she stepped to the edge of the terrace to scan the beach.

And there he was, she noted, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched a bit against the wind. She watched until she saw him veer toward the beach steps.

She went back inside, poured two glasses of wine, then carried them both to the door to meet him.

“Gorgeous day, isn’t it?” She passed him a glass. “You can almost smell the leading edge of spring if you try hard enough.”

“Spring? My ears are frozen.”

“They wouldn’t be if you’d worn a hat. I’ve got the fire built up again in the main parlor.”

But his gaze had already landed on the kitchen counter. “You brought more cookies.”

“They’re for later.” Deliberately she stepped over to block him. “After wine, conversation, massage, then the really excellent ham and potato soup and beer bread I made this afternoon.”

“You made soup and bread.”

“I considered it therapy after dealing with the police. You reap the rewards. They came here, too.”

“Yeah, they were here.”

“You can tell me about that while we drink this wine. Or do you want me to go first?”

“Chronological order.” He stripped off his jacket, tossed it on a kitchen stool. “What?” he said when she just stared at him, eyebrows lifted.

“Didn’t your mother teach you to hang up your things?”

“For Christ’s sake,” he muttered, but he snatched the jacket up, walked to the laundry room to tag it on a peg. “Better?”

“In fact, perfect. Chronological puts me first.” On impulse she grabbed the bottle of wine. “In case,” she added as she started toward the big parlor.

“You set this up?” he said when he saw the massage table.

“I did, and get the weird thoughts out of your head. A massage is a massage, sex is sex. You may get one with the other, but not when I’m charging you. And I am.”

“For the massage or sex, because I should know the rates going in.”

“You’re a funny guy when you’re not brooding.” She sat on the sofa, curled up her legs. “So, basically, I had to take the two detectives, one local, one Boston, through what happened here on Thursday night when I initially came in to check the windows, backtrack to my conversation with Duncan in the church basement. Toggle back to what time you came back from Boston, meeting me at Mike and Maureen’s, coming here to talk to Vinnie. What I said to him, what you said, what he said—all of which you already know. Going down to the basement, ultimately finding the big hole, and verifying I stayed over, crashing on this very spot. What time I got up, which was about six. At which time I considered going upstairs and crawling into bed with you, though I didn’t see the need to tell them that.”

“You didn’t see the need, apparently, to tell me either until now.”

“No, I didn’t. You were dead asleep. I did go up,” she added.

His eyes narrowed. “You came upstairs that morning?”

“I did. I woke a little uneasy—residual stress, I guess. And really grateful I wasn’t alone, but with all of the night before playing around in my head so I felt alone down here. I went to see if you were, by any chance, awake, and you weren’t. I debated waking you up, decided against. The fact was, seeing you up there helped me not feel alone down here.”

“You should’ve woken me. Depending on how you did, you could’ve stayed up there, or I’d’ve come down here with you so you wouldn’t have been alone.”

“Hindsight. I did tell the police I went upstairs early, saw you were still sleeping, so just came back downstairs. I got the very clear impression your Detective Wolfe thinks I’m a big ho and a skanky liar.”

“He’s not my Detective Wolfe.”

“He thinks he is.” Abra took a sip of wine. “I ran it through for them. I came back down, made coffee, ate some fruit, cut up some melon, pineapple and so on for you, made an omelet, left it on warm, wrote you a note, went home and meditated before I changed for an early class.”

“They knew coming in here I couldn’t have killed Duncan, then driven into Boston, searched his office and apartment, driven back.”

“His office? In Boston? What’s all that?”

“Apparently somebody tossed Duncan’s office and apartment in Boston, cleaned out his records, his computers. Which points to his client being his killer, unless you’re convinced I killed him. But they talked to you, knew you saw me here at nearly two in the morning and around six in the morning. Not just hard for me to pull all that off in four hours—not possible for me to pull it off. They knew there wasn’t enough time.”

“That depends.” She took another drink. “If you’re Wolfe and I’m a big, skanky lying ho, that puts me on the slippery slope to co-murderer.”

“Jesus Christ.” Eli set his glass down to press the heels of his hands to his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, shut up. You’re not insinuating I’m a big, skanky lying ho co-murderer. Wolfe doesn’t believe he can be wrong about you killing Lindsay, which means you had to have killed Duncan, which means I’m a big, skanky and so forth. I’ve known people like him. They absolutely, without question, believe they’re right, so everything that calls that rightness into doubt is a lie, an evasion, a mistake.”

She slugged down some wine. “People like that make me . . . impatient.”

“Impatient?”

“Yes, right before they piss me off. The other detective, Corbett, he wasn’t buying it. He was careful, but he wasn’t buying I colluded with you to kill Duncan, or very much interested in Wolfe’s line of questioning leading to us having not only met long before you came back to Whiskey Beach, but carrying on a hot, sexy, secret affair, which naturally means we’re both complicit in Lindsay’s death.”

She shifted, unconsciously nearly mirroring the mermaid pose. “I told him, frankly, I haven’t decided if I’m going to have hot sex with you, but I’m leaning toward it, and if I do, it wouldn’t be secret and wouldn’t necessarily qualify as an affair, or not as he termed it, as neither of us is married or involved with someone else.”

“You told them . . .” Eli just sighed, picked up his wine again.

“Well, he made me impatient then pissed me off. Seriously pissed me off, and I’ve got a pretty high temper threshold. Suddenly I’m a liar, a cheat, a home wrecker, a tramp and a murderer. All because he can’t accept he pushed the wrong buttons and you didn’t kill anyone.

“A*shole.” She topped off her wine, offered Eli the bottle. He only shook his head. “So. Your turn.”

“Not much to add. I gave them the rundown, which would’ve run parallel to yours, and Vinnie’s—who Wolfe may think is a dirty cop to go along with my other friend, the skanky, lying ho.”

“And co-murderer,” Abra reminded him with a lift of her glass.

“You take it well.”

“Now, after peeling and dicing potatoes, and drinking a glass of wine. But back up, someone got into Duncan’s office and apartment in Boston and now there’s no record of his clients, who might have hired him to investigate you. And all his things were cleaned out of the B-and-B. So it’s a very logical leap to that client. The police have to make that leap.”

“Not if it’s Wolfe. I’m his white f*cking whale.”

“I hated that book. Anyway, nobody who knows Vinnie is going to see dirty cop. And as we didn’t know each other until you moved here, it can’t be proven otherwise. Add to that my sex fast, and it’s really hard to box me as a big ho. All of that just weighs on your side, Eli.”

“I’m not worried about it. Not worried,” he insisted when she just lifted those eyebrows again. “That’s not the response. I’m interested. It’s been a long time since I’ve been interested in anything outside of writing, but I’m interested in figuring this out.”

“Good. Everyone should have a hobby.”

“Is that sarcasm?”

“Not really. You’re not a cop or an investigator, but you are a legitimately interested party. And now, so am I. We have a hobby to share. Full disclosure. I saw your notes in the library.”

“Okay.”

“If you have something you don’t want me to see—such as that fabulous sketch of Mermaid Me, which I’d love if you replicated on good paper so I could have it—you need to put it away. I have a key, and I intend to keep using it. I was looking around for you.”

“Okay.” He did feel a little weird about the sketch. “Sometimes doodling helps me think.”

“That wasn’t doodling, it was drawing. Doodling’s what I do, and it looks like half-ass balloon animals. I liked Devil Vampire Wolfe, too.”

“That one had some potential.”

“I thought so, and drawing did help you think. The cast of characters, the connections between them, or among them, the timelines and factors, all there, all logical. That all seems like a good start. I think I’m going to make notes of my own.”

He considered a moment. “He’ll look at you. Wolfe will. And when he does he won’t be able to find any contact between us before I moved in here. He also won’t be able to find anything that weighs on the side of you being a lying, murdering, skanky ho.”

“How do you know?” She smiled at him. “I haven’t told you my story yet. Maybe I’m a recovering skanky ho with murderous tendencies.”

“Tell me your story and I’ll be the judge.”

“I will. Later. Now it’s time for your massage.”

He gave the table an uneasy glance.

“Your honor is safe with me,” she said as she rose. “This isn’t foreplay.”

“I keep thinking about sleeping with you.” Actually, he kept thinking about tearing her clothes off and riding her like a horny stallion, but that seemed . . . indelicate.

“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t, but that’s not going to happen during the next hour. Strip it off, get on the table—faceup. I’m going to go wash up.”

“You’re bossy.”

“I can be, and while that’s a flaw and I do work on it, I wouldn’t want to be perfect. I’d bore myself.” She trailed a hand over his arm as she walked out of the room.

Since it didn’t seem time to tear her clothes off, he took off his own.

It was weird, being naked under the sheet. And weirder yet when she came back, turned on her nature music, lit candles.

Then those magic fingers started on his neck, the top of his shoulders, and he had to ask himself if it was weird when sex slid to the back of his mind.

“Stop thinking so hard,” she told him. “Let it go.”

He thought about not thinking. He thought about thinking about something else. He tried using his book, but the problems of his characters oozed away along with his muscle aches.

While he tried not to think, or to think about something else or use his book as an escape, she released knots, soothed aches, melted away hot little pockets of tension.

He rolled over when she told him to, and decided she could solve all the problems of wars, economy, bitter battles, by just getting the key players on her table for an hour.

“You’ve been working out.”

Her voice stroked as expertly as her hands.

“Yeah, some.”

“I can feel it. But your back’s a maze of tension, sweetie.”

He tried to think of the last time anyone, including his mother, had called him sweetie.

“It’s been an interesting few days.”

“Mmm. I’m going to show you some stretches, some tension relievers. You can take a couple of minutes to do them whenever you get up from the keyboard.”

She pulled, pressed, twisted, tugged, ground, then rubbed every little shock away until he lay limp as water.

“How’re you doing?” she asked when she smoothed the sheet over him.

“I think I saw God.”

“How did she look?”

He let out a muffled laugh. “Pretty hot, actually.”

“I always suspected that. Take your time getting up. I’ll be back in a couple minutes.”

He’d managed to sit up, mostly wrap the sheet around the important parts, when she walked back in with a glass of water.

“Drink it all.” She cupped his hands around it, then brushed his hair away from his forehead. “You look relaxed.”

“There’s a word between ‘relaxed’ and ‘unconscious.’ I can’t think of it now, but that’s where I am.”

“It’s a good place. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

“Abra.” He took her hand. “It sounds weak and clichéd, but I’m going to say it anyway. You have a gift.”

She smiled, beautifully. “It doesn’t sound weak and clichéd to me. Take your time.”

When he came in she had the soup warming on the stove, and a glass of wine in her hand. “Hungry?”

“I wasn’t, but that smells pretty damn good.”

“Are you up for another walk on the beach first?”

“I could be.”

“Good. The light’s so soft and pretty this time of day. We’ll work up an appetite.” She led the way into the laundry for jackets, zipped up her own hoodie.

“I used the telescope earlier,” she told him as they stepped outside. “It’s a good spot for it.”

“I saw some crime-scene techs poking around by the lighthouse.”

“We don’t have murder as a rule in Whiskey Beach, and fatal accidents don’t draw tourists. It’s important to be thorough. And the more thorough they are, the better it is for you.”

“Maybe so, but I’m connected. Somehow. The local cop asked if there were guns in the house. I hedged because I had this sudden thought that maybe whoever broke in took something out of the gun collection to shoot Duncan.”

“God. I never thought of that.”

“You’ve never been the prime suspect in a murder investigation. Anyway, they’re all there, in place, locked in their cases. When they get the search warrant, and they will, they may take them in for testing. But they’ll already know none of the weapons in Bluff House killed Duncan.”

“Because they’ll know what kind of caliber was used, and maybe even what kind of gun. I’ve watched my share of CSI-type TV,” she added. “They’re all antique-type guns in there. I doubt Duncan was shot with a musket or a dueling pistol.”

“Odds are low.”

“Regardless, we’re undoing our earlier work talking about cops and murder.” She shook her hair back when they reached the base of the beach steps, lifted her face to the softening blue of the evening sky. “Do you want to know why I moved to Whiskey Beach? Why it’s my place?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“I’m going to tell you. It’s a good beach-walking story, though I have to start back a ways, to give you the background.”

“One question first, because I’ve been trying to figure it out. What did you do before you came here and started your massage/yoga/jewelry-making/housecleaning business?”

“You mean professionally? I was the marketing director for a nonprofit out of D.C.”

He looked at her—rings on her fingers, hair flying everywhere. “Okay, that one didn’t make the top ten on my list.”

She gave him an elbow poke. “I have an MBA from Northwestern.”

“Seriously?”

“Deadly serious, and I’m jumping ahead. My mother is an amazing woman. An incredibly smart, dedicated, brave, involved woman. She had me while she was in grad school, and my father decided it was all more than he signed on for, so they split when I was about two. He’s not really a part of my life.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So was I for a while, but I got over it. My mother’s a human rights attorney. We traveled a lot. She took me with her whenever she could. When she couldn’t, I stayed with my aunt—her sister—or my maternal grandparents. But for the most part I went with her. I got a hell of an education and worldview.”

“Wait a minute. Wait.” The sudden flash had him gaping at her. “Is your mother Jane Walsh?”

“Yes. You know her?”

“Of. Jesus Christ, Jane Walsh? She won the Nobel Peace Prize.”

“I said she was an amazing woman. I wanted to be her when I grew up, but who wouldn’t?” Abra lifted her arms high for a moment, closed her eyes to welcome the wind. “She’s one in a million. One in tens of millions from my point of view. She taught me love and compassion, courage and justice. Initially I thought to follow directly in her footsteps, get a law degree, but God, it so wasn’t for me.”

“Was she disappointed?”

“No. Another very essential lesson she taught me was to follow your own mind and heart.” As they walked, she wound her arm with his. “Was your father disappointed you didn’t follow his?”

“No. We’re both lucky there.”

“Yes, we are. So I went for the MBA, tailored toward working in the nonprofit sector. I was good at it.”

“I bet you were.”

“I felt I was making a contribution, and maybe it didn’t always feel like the perfect fit, but close enough. I liked the work, I liked my life, my circle of friends. I met Derrick at a fund-raiser I spearheaded. Another lawyer. I must be drawn to the field.”

She paused to look out over the sea. “God, it’s beautiful here. I look at the sea every day and think how lucky I am to be here, to see this, to feel it. My mother’s in Afghanistan right now, working with and for Afghani women. And I know we’re both exactly where we’re meant to be, doing what we’re meant to do. But a few years ago, I was in D.C., with a closetful of professional suits, an overloaded desk, a crowded appointment book, and Derrick seemed like the right choice at the right time.”

“But he wasn’t.”

“In some strange way, he was. Smart, charming, intense, ambitious. He understood my work, I understood his. The sex was satisfying, the conversations interesting. The first time he hit me, I let myself believe it was a terrible mistake, an aberration, just a bad moment resulting from stress.”

Because she felt Eli stiffen, she rubbed her free hand on the arm wound with hers. “I saw his temper as passion, and his possessiveness as a kind of flattery. The second time he hit me, I left because once might be a terrible mistake, but twice is the start of a pattern.”

Reaching over, he closed his hand over the one she’d laid on his arm. “Some people don’t see the pattern when they’re in it.”

“I know. I talked to a lot of women in support groups, and understand how you can be persuaded to accept the apology, or begin to believe you deserve the abuse. I got out, and quickly.”

“You didn’t report it.”

Now she sighed. “No, I didn’t. I wanted the leaving to be enough. Why damage his career or put myself into a scandal? I took a short leave of absence rather than explain the black eye to coworkers and friends, and I came here for a week.”

“To Whiskey Beach?”

“Yeah. I’d come here with my mother years ago, then again with my aunt and her family. I had good memories here, so I rented a cottage and walked the beach, gave myself the time, I thought, to heal.”

“You didn’t tell anyone?”

“Not then. I’d made a mistake, and told myself I’d fixed the mistake and to get on with my life. And, as foolish as it was, I was embarrassed. After my leave, I went back to work, but nothing seemed exactly right. Friends started asking what was going on, that Derrick had contacted them, told them I’d had a breakdown, which put me in what I considered the humiliating position of telling them he’d hit me, and I’d left him.”

“But he’d planted seeds.”

She glanced up at him. “It’s another pattern, isn’t it? Yes, he’d planted seeds, enough some sprouted. He knew a lot of people, and he was smart, and he was angry. He dropped little hints here and there about me being unstable. And he stalked me. The thing about being a stalkee is not always knowing it’s happening. I didn’t. Not until I started dating again, casually. Very casually. Look.”

She pointed to a pelican, soaring out over the water, then his fast dive for his evening meal.

“I try to feel sorry for the fish, but I just love watching the pelicans. They have the oddest shape, and it strikes me as ungainly—like a moose—then they compact that way and dive down like a spear.”

Eli turned her to face him. “He hurt you again.”

“Oh God, yes. In more ways than one. I should finish it. No need for all the minute details. My boss got anonymous notes about my behavior, my supposed abuse of drugs, alcohol, sex, my using sex to influence donors. Enough of them he eventually called me in, questioned me. And again I had to humiliate myself—or so it felt at the time—by telling him about Derrick. My superior spoke with his superior, and all hell broke loose.”

Now she took a long, careful breath. “Nasty little things at first. Having my tires slashed, my car keyed. My phone ringing in the middle of the night, repeatedly, with hang ups, finding someone canceled my reservations for lunch or dinner. My computers, work and home, were hacked. The man I was seeing casually had his car windows smashed, and anonymous complaints—ugly ones—sent to his boss. We stopped seeing each other. It wasn’t serious, and it seemed easier.”

“What did the cops do?”

“They talked to him, and he denied everything. He’s very convincing. He told them he’d ended things with me because I was too possessive and had gotten violent. He claimed to be worried about me and hoped I’d get help.”

“A decent cop should’ve seen through that.”

“I think they did, but they couldn’t prove he’d done any of it. It kept going, little things, bigger things, for over three months. I was on edge all the time, and my work was suffering. He started to show up at restaurants where I’d be having lunch or dinner. Or I’d look out my apartment window and see his car drive by, or think I did. We ran in similar circles, lived and worked in the same general area, so because he never approached me the police couldn’t do anything about it.

“I snapped one day when he strolled into the place where I was having lunch with a coworker. I marched over, told him to leave me the hell alone, called him names, created a terrible scene until the woman I worked with got me out.”

“He broke you down,” Eli stated.

“Completely. He stayed absolutely calm through it, or I thought he did. And that night he broke into my apartment. He was waiting for me when I came home. He was out of control, completely out of control. I fought back, but he was stronger. He had a knife—one of mine from my kitchen—and I thought he’d kill me. I tried to get out, but he caught me, and we struggled. He cut me.”

Eli stopped walking, turned to take both of her hands.

“Along my ribs. I still don’t know if it was an accident or he meant to, but I thought I’d be dead, any second, and started screaming. Instead of the knife, he used his fists. He beat me, he choked me, and he was raping me when my neighbors broke in. They’d heard me screaming and called the police, but thank God they didn’t wait for the cops. I think he might’ve killed me, with his bare hands, if they hadn’t stopped him when they did.”

His arms came around her, and she leaned into him. She thought a lot of men backed off when they heard the word “rape.” But not Eli.

She turned to walk again, comforted by his arm around her waist. “I had more than a black eye this time. My mother had been in Africa and came straight back. You’d know all about the process—the tests, the interviews with the police, the counselors, the lawyers. It’s horrible, that reliving of it, and I was angry to be viewed as a victim. Until I learned to accept I was a victim, but I didn’t have to stay one. In the end I was grateful they worked out a plea so I didn’t have to go through it all again in a trial. He went to prison, and my mother took me to this place in the country—a friend’s summer house in the Laurel Highlands. She gave me space, but not too much. She gave me time—long quiet walks, long crying jags, midnight baking sessions with tequila shots. God, oh God, she’s the most wonderful woman.”

“I’d like to meet her.”

“Maybe you will. She gave me a month, and then she asked me what I wanted to do with my life. The stars are coming out. We should walk back.”

They turned, walking now with the evening breeze at their backs. “What did you tell her?”

“I told her I wanted to live at the beach. I wanted to see the ocean every day. I told her I wanted to help people, but I couldn’t face going back to an office, going back to appointments and meetings and strategy sessions. I blubbered because I was sure she’d be disappointed in me. I had the education, the skills, the experience to make a difference. I had been making a difference, and now I just wanted to see the ocean every day.”

“You were wrong. About her being disappointed.”

“I was wrong. She said I should find my place, and I should live my life in a way that satisfied me, that made me happy. So I came here, and I found ways to make myself happy and satisfied. I might not be here, doing what I really love, if Derrick hadn’t broken me.”

“He didn’t break you. I don’t believe in fate, in destiny, in absolutes, but sometimes it smacks you in the face. You’re where you’re meant to be because you’re meant to be here. I think you’d have found your way.”

“That’s a nice thought.” She stood on the bottom beach step, turned to him, laid her hands on his shoulders. “I have been happy here, and more open here than I ever was before. I made a very deliberate decision a year or so ago to go on my sexual fast because, though I’d met some very nice men, none of them fulfilled that part of me that may have been damaged more than I admitted. It’s a lot to lay on you, Eli, but I’d really appreciate it if you’d help me break my fast.”

“Now?”

“I was thinking now would be good.” She leaned in to kiss him. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

“Well, you did make soup.”

“And bread,” she reminded him.

“It seems like the least I can do. We ought to go in the house first.”

He cleared his throat as they started up the steps. “Ah, I’m going to have to make a quick trip to the village. I didn’t bring any protection. I haven’t been thinking much about sex until recently.”

“No problem, and no need for the trip. I put a box of condoms in your bedroom the other day. I’ve been thinking about sex recently.”

He let out a breath. “You’re the best housekeeper I’ve ever had.”

“Oh, Eli, you haven’t seen anything yet.”