Ten minutes after the end of her sermon, Lucy Fuller stepped out the door into the alley. She’d changed from her navy blue power suit with its ankle-length skirt and white frilly blouse to a plain black skirt and blouse. She’d repaired her makeup from her crying jag and now looked calm and collected.
He didn’t speak to her, didn’t let himself be seen. But he did follow her. She walked purposefully, her high heels clicking on the concrete in a quick staccato. Where was she going in such a hurry? Kingsley had to know. Once he noted the make and model of the car she walked to, Kingsley headed back to his own. When she pulled out of the parking lot, he tailed her. He kept several cars between them, made sure she never noticed he took the same turns she took. After a few minutes he realized they were heading back into the city, back toward Manhattan. She was alone and in a hurry. All good signs she was doing something she shouldn’t be doing.
In twenty-five minutes, they were in familiar territory. In a few more minutes, they turned on to Riverside Drive. Kingsley fell back as far as he could without losing her entirely. She got away from him for a minute, but then he found her again. She’d pulled up in front of a house.
His house.
Kingsley parked his car against the curb and watched.
He watched Sam walk out the front door carrying an envelope.
He watched Lucy Fuller roll down her passenger-side window.
He watched Sam toss something through the car window and walk back into the house.
He watched Lucy Fuller drive away.
Kingsley got out of his car and walked into his own house feeling as if he were entering the home of a stranger or an enemy.
He found Sam in his office, f lipping through files.
“Hey,” she said, giving him a smile. “I thought you’d be at Mistress Felicia’s all night.”
“How much are they paying you?”
“What?”
“How much are the Fullers paying you?”
Sam dropped the files she was holding on to Kingsley’s desk.
“I asked you to stay away from Lucy Fuller,” she said. “You promised me—”
“And you said you were on my side. We all make promises we can’t keep.”
“King, listen. I can—”
“How much are the Fullers paying you?” he asked again.
She paused, went silent. She seemed to be weighing her words, weighing her options. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this coldly, bitterly angry. Not even when Marie-Laure had died. Not even then.
“More than you are,” Sam finally said.
“So much ‘more weight,’ right?” Kingsley asked. “All that matters to you is more money.”
“Suits like mine are expensive,” Sam said.
And Kingsley replied with the only two words he could force out of his tight and clenched throat.
“You’re fired.”
32
September
“WHAT’S YOUR POISON?” THE BARTENDER ASKED, AND Kingsley answered, “Bartenders.”
Duke raised his eyebrow and Kingsley laughed. “I’m fine,” Kingsley said. “I’m not drinking tonight.” “Prowling tonight?”
“Not that, either,” Kingsley said.
“What can I get you, then?” Duke asked.
“Nothing,” Kingsley answered. “You can’t get me anything.”
Duke gave him a look of sympathy and moved on to another customer. Meanwhile Kingsley stared at the bottles of alcohol arrayed behind the bar. Bourbon, whiskey, rum, vodka and rye. He wanted to drink them all. Every single bottle. Not that it would do him any good. He’d tried drinking again, but all it gave him was a hangover. No matter how much booze he’d poured into the hole Sam had left, it never filled up.
One good thing had come of Sam’s betrayal and defection. It had hurt Kingsley so much he knew for certain he was alive again, as alive as he’d ever been and more. Knowing she’d taken money from the Fullers to feed them information about him had left him raging in every part of his being. Raging and grieving. He had never been so angry. He had never been so hurt. He had never felt more alive and wished more that he wasn’t.