Chapter 11: The Investigator

I let it ring twice, then slid out from under Carlton's arm and took the phone into the bathroom.

I shut the door and sat on the edge of the tub.

"Grandma," I whispered. "It's three in the morning."

"It's six in New York," said Opal Pennock. "I've been up since four. At my age you sleep in sales."

Her voice was thin and dry and as sharp as ever.

I felt my eyes sting.

"Is everything okay?"

"That's my question. You haven't called in three weeks."

"I've been busy."

"With the boy."

I closed my eyes.

"You know about the boy."

"Penny, four million people know about the boy. My driver showed me the bicycle on his phone at a red light."

"Oh no."

"He cried. He said it was the best thing he'd seen all year."

"Grandma."

"And I said, that's my girl. That's my girl asking a rich man for a hundred and forty dollars."

I put my head in my free hand.

"It was a good bike," I said.

"I'm sure it was." She paused, and I heard the clink of a spoon against china. "Are you eating?"

"Yes."

"Is he nice?"

"He's," I said, and stopped, because it was suddenly very hard to talk.

"He's what?"

"He's really nice, Grandma."

"Does he know?"

"No."

"Penny."

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