Chapter 22: Her Door

I woke in Erik's loft with the sun on the river and a bag of frozen peas on the pillow beside me.

The peas were for his cheekbone.

He had fallen asleep before he used them.

I lay on my side and looked at the bruise, purple and swollen, and I touched it very lightly with one finger.

He opened one grey eye.

"That hurts," he said.

"You hit his fist with your face."

"I held my position."

"You held it with your face."

"It worked."

I laughed until the bed shook.

He pulled me against him, careful of his cheek, and I put my head on his chest.

It was ten in the morning.

I had slept nine hours, and I hadn't dreamed about the ramp.

The detective had called at midnight.

Roland was in a holding cell with no lawyer who would pick up, because his lawyer had read the news.

The man in the hood had been picked up at a motel in Gresham two hours after the gala, with the gun still in his bag.

Imogen was in a different room, with a different lawyer, telling it all again.

Blair had sent a note to the loft by courier.

It said, in blue ink, You have my testimony and my daughter's thanks, and a seat at my table whenever you want it.

I read it twice and put it on the shelf above the planer.

"What do you want to do today?" Erik said.

I thought about it.

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