Chapter 17: Terms

Rocco didn't say a word in the elevator.

He didn't say one in the lobby either, or on the sidewalk, where a black car idled at the curb with one of his drivers at the wheel.

"The gun is in my safe," he said finally. "The magazine is in a different drawer. Nobody has touched either one."

"He reported it stolen."

"Then let him explain to a detective why a man like him owned it."

"They'll come for me."

"They'll come for you in my lawyer's office, on my schedule, with my lawyer in the room." He opened the car door. "Get in, Ada."

"I'm going to the hotel."

"I know. I'm coming with you."

"Rocco."

"I'll sit in the lobby all night if you want."

I looked at him for a long moment on the sidewalk.

His coat was open, his face was tired, and he was not asking for anything.

"Not the lobby," I said.

The room was small and clean, and the window looked across an air shaft.

I had paid for it with the last of my four hundred dollars.

He stood inside the door and did not come any farther.

"I don't know how to do this," he said.

"Do what?"

"Stand in a room with you when I owe you this much."

"You don't owe me a room."

"I owe you four years."

"Then stop counting," I said. "I'm not a ledger."

I crossed to him and took his coat by the lapels.

His hands came up and stopped an inch from my waist.

They were shaking.

I had seen them shake before, from the poison, and this was something else.

"You're trembling," I said.

"I know."

"It isn't the arsenic."

"No."

"Then what is it?"

"You," he said. "I keep thinking you'll walk out of the door."

I pulled his mouth down to mine.

He kissed me slowly and thoroughly, his hand spread against the back of my head.

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