Chapter 8
The private club in Midtown was dark, smelling of old leather and cigar smoke.
Bridger sat in a deep armchair, his tie undone, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. It was his third.
Bobby Kelly slid into the seat opposite him. Bobby was the kind of guy who wore loafers without socks and thought life was a joke.
"You look like hell, Bridge," Bobby grinned.
"Shut up," Bridger said. He took a drink. The whiskey burned, but not enough. "Tell me again."
"Tell you what?"
"About Gracia. About what you heard five years ago."
Bobby's smile faltered. He shifted in his seat. He remembered the phone call with Elliot, the vague sense of unease he'd felt even then. But it was ancient history, and Bridger was his friend. He'd done what he thought was best at the time.
"Man, why are we digging up fossils?" Bobby deflected.
"Did she really want to break up?" Bridger asked. His eyes were intense, desperate.
Bobby looked at his friend. He couldn't admit he might have been a pawn in someone else's game. Not now. It would only make things worse.
"Yeah," Bobby said, his voice a little too firm. "From what I heard, she met someone right after graduation. Some guy. They got married fast. Real fast."
"Fast," Bridger repeated.
"Like, whiplash fast. She moved on, Bridge. She didn't look back."
Bridger closed his eyes. The image of the red mark on her neck flashed in his mind.
"She's happy then?" Bridger asked, his voice barely a whisper.
"I guess. Why wouldn't she be?"
Bridger finished his drink in one swallow. "She's working for me. In data entry."
Bobby choked on his gin and tonic. "What? The genius artist?"
"She's not an artist anymore. She's a clerk. And she's broke."
"Maybe the husband lost his money," Bobby shrugged. "Bad investment. It happens."
"Maybe," Bridger said.
He stood up. He felt unsteady. "I'm going."
"It's 2 AM. Where are you going?"
"Work."
Bridger stumbled into his waiting car. "The office," he told the driver.
He didn't go up to the penthouse. He sat in the car, looking up at the 12th floor. There was one light on.
She was there. Doing the impossible task he had given her.
He pulled out his phone. He dialed her extension.
Upstairs, Gracia was typing furiously. Her eyes were dry, her fingers cramping.
The phone rang.
She jumped. The sound was shrill in the silent office.
"Jennings Group, Marketing," she answered, her voice hoarse.
Silence.
She could hear breathing. Heavy, rhythmic breathing.
"Hello?" Gracia whispered.
On the street below, Bridger pressed the phone to his ear. He wanted to say her name. He wanted to ask why. Why him? Why not me?
"Hello?" she asked again.
He heard the tremor in her voice. She sounded exhausted.
Bridger lowered the phone and ended the call.
He leaned his head back against the seat. "Take me home," he whispered.
Gracia held the receiver for a long time after the line went dead. She knew. She didn't know how, but she knew it was him.
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