Something cold forms in Richard’s gut. He doesn’t like Exley mentioning Haley, even if not by name. “I see you’ve already been talking to Jordan. Which means you can’t have much to say to me.”
“Did you screw him over with the investigator?” Exley continues.
Richard laughs. “Didn’t need to. He managed that all by himself. This strategy of his? Not answering questions? Complete fail. That dean is going to nail his ass. And not because of anything I said.”
“I hope for your sake it’s not.”
Richard stares at him. The guy doesn’t blink. “That sounds like a threat,” Richard says. He wills his voice into non-chalance, but his skin crawls.
“You can take it any way you want. I’m just saying: you don’t want to be known as the guy who sold out another guy.”
Richard pauses, trying to make sense of this. “Known as? How would I be ‘known as’ anything?”
Exley stands. His mouth twists into a mocking smile. “Beats me. People have ways of finding out. And talking about it.” He hefts the pack from the floor with one hand. He begins to walk out.
Richard rises from his chair. Two can play this game. “True,” he says. “Like, we wouldn’t want that investigator finding out what Jordan told you. You know. About hooking up with Jenny.”
Exley turns. “Did he say that? To me? First I’ve heard of it,” Exley says, faking a wide--eyed, innocent smile. He can’t pull it off, and it’s creepy.
“Or the Doctor’s bartending skills,” Richard continues. “Wouldn’t Dean Hunt be surprised to hear you’ve got a PhD.”
Exley takes a step closer to him. “People hafta drink,” he says softly. “They want to feel good, and that’s what the Doctor’s there for.”
“So I hear,” Richard replies. “Tell me, Doc: is it true you mixed a little something special in the barrel that night at Conundrum?”
Exley squints. The dead eyes are like slits. “Are you threatening me?”
Richard laughs softly. “You can take it any way you want.”
Exley lifts. Word is he’s obsessed. Competitive about it, too, always asking the other guys how much they press, making sure they know he did more. The results are intimidating, and standing inches away from him right now, Richard senses the inadequacy of his own lean runner’s frame.
And unlike his past confrontations with Exley, there’s no one around to step in between.
Then, inexplicably, Exley blinks.
“Don’t play games you can’t win, Richie,” he sneers, and walks out.
. . .
Joe is tired of yelling in people’s ears. No one knows who she is.
Until, finally, someone remembers the small girl at the drinks table.
“That crowd left,” he shouts over the music. “Except for . . .” His eyes dart. They settle. He points. She’s tall, dark eyes. She’s heading for the exit. She walks with one arm wrapped around a boy’s waist, his around hers.
Exley. They disappear into the night.
“Shoot,” Joe says.
Maybe she can sleep it off, he thinks. Maybe she’s better now. He goes to check.
The stink of vomit rolls out of his room when he opens the door.
. . .
29
Haley
“What the hell happened in there?”
Mr. James, his face mottled purple with rage, fires this question at Haley. On one of the reception room couches, her mother’s arms encircling her, Jenny weeps. Her gasping cries draw attention from students arriving for other appointments. They peer in from the hall, their concerned whispers audible.
The lawyer, Mr. Talbot, places one hand on Mr. James’s arm. “Dan, let’s take this somewhere else,” he says. “Back to the hotel?”
Mr. James nods, but refuses to decouple his gaze from Haley’s.
She doesn’t know where to begin.
Things pretty much fell apart after Oscar.
“I’m telling you the truth!” Jenny kept insisting.
Dean Hunt nodded. “Yes, I believe you are,” he’d said, which, if it were an attempt to reassure her, had the op-posite effect. The calmer his tone, the angrier and more frantic she grew. Finally, he suggested they were done for the day; he might ask her back for some follow--up. Jenny, barely civil, practically fled the room.
“He asked tough questions,” Haley stammers. “It shook her up.” It shook me up, she doesn’t add.
“She needs a lawyer in there,” Mr. James seethes. He re-directs his glare at Mr. Talbot. “I don’t know what to do!”
“We can start by getting your deeply upset daughter out of here,” the lawyer says. He walks over to Jenny’s mom and places a hand on her shoulder, murmuring something.
“Help us out, Haley,” Mr. James says. “You were in there. You see . . . this.” He gestures toward Jenny and her mom. “She needs a lawyer! But she insists on keeping you. Do her a favor: quit. If they call her in again, tell her you won’t do it. Maybe then she’ll listen to reason.”
Jenny, her cries now replaced by breathy hiccups, unfolds from the couch, her mother half lifting her. Haley decides this is not the time to tell Mr. James it doesn’t matter. That regardless of who sits alongside Jenny, she’ll recall the same non-existent dog. The same mysterious second--floor bedroom. The same vodka--soaked partying.