Chapter 9: Over My Dead Body

Laurence had the painter out of the room in under a minute.

He did it without raising his voice.

"Mr. Mulvaney will walk you and your counsel to the elevator," he said. "If you have a claim, it goes to my lawyers, in writing."

"In writing is fine," said the lawyer, smiling.

"Of course it is," said the painter, and he looked at Birdie again, and he did not look sorry at all.

The door shut.

Laurence stood with his back to it, and I heard what he did not say.

*A man. There was a man. Six years she said there was no man.*

*Look at her. Look at her face. She never saw him.*

*Paper. Get his paper.*

He turned and looked at me for a long moment.

"I never saw him before today," I said.

"I know."

I stared.

"I know what your face looks like when you lie," Laurence said, low. "You touch your left ear. You didn't."

*Three years. I learned every one of her habits and I threw it away because a page said so.*

It was the first time he had said anything aloud that I could take to the bank.

I did not know what to do with it.

That night Birdie's fever came up.

It began at ten with a flush on her cheeks, and by two in the morning she was hot to the touch and breathing in short, wet pulls.

The nurse took her temperature three times and called the immunologist.

Laurence came in from his study in shirtsleeves, with his tie gone and his hair on end.

He stood on one side of the bed.

I stood on the other.

"Her counts are dropping," the doctor said. "It's the infection in the lung. We'll start a stronger antibiotic and watch her through the night."

"Is she going to be all right?" I said.

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