Chapter 8: His Weekend

"Thank you for lunch," I said.

I stood up and left the check where it was.

Patricia didn't look at me.

"You'll regret this before Friday," she said to the window.

I walked out through the dining room with my phone in my pocket, still connected.

The valet stand was busy.

Two women in tennis whites were waiting for their cars.

A man was on a bench reading a newspaper.

I was reaching for my keys when someone grabbed my jacket from behind.

Tamara.

She must have been waiting in her car the whole lunch.

"Give it to me," she said, and yanked the phone out of my pocket.

"Tamara!"

She held it up, saw the call screen, and her face went white.

"Who is this? Who's listening?"

She didn't wait for an answer.

She threw it down on the pavement as hard as she could.

The screen shattered.

She stamped on it with her heel.

Once, twice, three times, until the glass was powder.

The two women in tennis whites backed away.

The valet stood frozen with somebody's keys in his hand.

The man on the bench lowered his newspaper and pulled out his own phone.

Tamara was breathing hard.

"There," she said. "Whatever she told you, it's gone."

I looked down at what was left of my phone.

Then at her.

"It was a call," I said. "Not a recording."

She stared at me.

"Everything your mother said went to the other end of the line forty minutes ago. It's recorded there. Smashing my phone just added a charge."

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