Chapter 18: The Toast

I hit the stage on my side, and the boards felt a long way off.

My heart was racing so fast I couldn't count it. Every muscle in my body pulled tight, and my hands curled into claws.

Roberta's voice was still going over the speakers.

The estate is ours. The fool believes you're a saint, Colin.

"That is not me," Roberta said, in the ballroom, in front of a hundred and twenty people. "That is a fake. Turn it off."

Her own voice answered her from the ceiling.

Don't spoil it now.

Then Quincy was on his knees beside me.

I saw his bare hands first.

They slid under my head, and one of them found the pulse in my neck.

"Pamela. Look at me."

I tried.

"She's having an episode," said a smooth voice above us. "Stand back, please. I'm her physician. I'll sedate her."

The doctor from Roberta's table had his leather bag open and a syringe in his hand.

"Put that down," said Quincy.

"Sir, I have her husband's authority."

"Her husband is gone."

Quincy's eyes didn't leave her pulse. "And you're about to sedate a woman whose heart is going two hundred beats a minute."

Quincy didn't raise his voice, and the doctor stopped.

"If you touch her," he said, "I'll have your license by Monday."

The syringe went back into the bag.

Under the leather flap I saw a sheaf of papers, pale blue, with a date on top.

Tomorrow's.

"Ten feet," I whispered. My lips were numb. "You said ten feet."

"I was always ten feet." His thumb moved on my pulse. "Don't talk. Breathe."

I couldn't.

The racing stopped.

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