Chapter 7: Two Punches

Quentin's hotel faced the lake, and he was sitting alone in the lobby bar with a glass of water when I found him.

He stood up so fast his chair fell over.

"Sabina."

"Sit," I said. "I'm not here for you."

I put the printed photograph on the table between us.

"Read it."

He sat. He read it.

I watched his face go through three things, one after another, and none of them was guilt.

"Wexley Tower," he said. "Fourteenth floor. Outgoing."

"Six ten in the morning, the day of the gala."

"This is my floor." His voice was flat. "Where did you get this?"

"Rocco."

He looked up.

"He had it in a drawer. It's the envelope the drive came in."

"Rocco," Quentin said, very softly.

"Quentin."

"He's the one who put it in my hand."

"I know."

"Where is he?"

"Not here," I said, and I knew it was a mistake before I'd finished the sentence.

The revolving door behind me turned, and Rocco came through it in his black coat.

I had told him to stay away. I had told him twice.

Quentin was on his feet before I could turn around.

He crossed the lobby and hit Rocco in the face.

It was a short, hard punch with his whole body behind it.

Rocco's head snapped sideways, and he went back into a marble column and slid.

The bartender shouted something in German.

"You handed me that," Quentin said. "In front of her. In front of my mother. You stood there and handed it to me."

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