high-end cosmetics, and the word “manscaped” was encompassed in every move Chick made.
Brooke said, “We don’t have time for this.”
Chick did that thing where you look the person in one eye, then the other, then back to the first. Myron just stood there and let him. You don’t judge a guy by his appearance. Win was the walking, talking embodiment of that. The guy was also hurting. You could see that too. He might be a vainglorious asshat, but his son had been snatched away from him ten years ago. You could see that in Chick’s face somehow, despite all he tried to do to cover it up.
So part of Myron felt sorry for the man.
And part of Myron remembered that Win didn’t like him.
“I tried my best,” Myron said to him. “He got away. I’m sorry about that.”
Chick hesitated and then nodded. “I’m sorry too. This has been . . .”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Brooke’s voice was gentle. “Chick?”
Chick gave Myron’s arm an apologetic squeeze as he turned toward his wife.
Brooke said, “Let’s go inside, okay?”
Chick nodded and joined her.
Brooke shaded her eyes with her right hand. “Myron?”
He glanced around and spotted a Costa coffee shop across the street. “I’ll wait there. Text if you need me.”
Chick and Brooke entered the hospital. Myron crossed the street and headed to the right for the Costa coffee shop. Costa was a chain coffee shop and resembled, more than anything else, a chain coffee shop. Swap the dark red décor for green and you could be in a Starbucks. Myron was sure that passionate defenders of either company would be offended by this observation, but Myron decided that he wouldn’t lose sleep over it.
He ordered a coffee from the barista, and then, realizing his stomach was growling, he checked out the food options. On that front—food variety—Costa seemed to have a leg up on its American competitor. He ordered a British Ham and Cheese Toastie. Toastie. “Toastie” was a cute word. Myron hadn’t heard it before, but he deduced, correctly as it turned out, that a “toastie” was probably a toasted sandwich.
Some stand in awe of Myron Bolitar’s power of deduction.
A text came in from Brooke: Not letting us see him. Told to wait.
Myron replied: Want me to come over?
Brooke: Not yet. Will keep you posted.
Myron sat at a table and ate the toastie. Not bad. He downed it too quickly and debated getting another. When had he last eaten? He sat back, drank his coffee, read articles that he’d saved on his smartphone. Time passed. The place was a little too quiet. Myron looked around at the drawn faces. Perhaps it was his imagination, but he could almost feel the misery hanging in the air. He was, of course, across the street from a hospital, so maybe that was why he was seeing suffering or anxiety, faces waiting for news, facesdreading news, faces that had come here to try to escape into the comforting sameness and normalcy of a chain coffee shop.
His phone vibrated. Another text message, this time from Terese: Got a job interview in Jackson Hole. For prime time anchor slot.
This was great news. Myron wrote back: Wow, that’s terrific.
Terese: Heading to owner’s ranch on his private plane tomorrow.
Myron: Great. I’m thrilled for you.
Terese: I don’t have the job.
Myron: You’ll kill the interview.
Terese: He can be a little handsy.
Myron: And I can kill him.
Terese: Love you, you know.
Myron: Love you too. But I mean it about killing him if he gets handsy.
Terese: You always know just what to say.
Myron was smiling. He was about to text a comeback when something caught his eye.
Or someone.
Nancy Moore, Patrick’s mother, had just entered the coffee shop. He typed a quick “Have to run” and hit send.
Where Brooke Baldwin was all strength and resolve, Nancy Moore looked small and drained. Her blond hair was pulled back into a rushed ponytail, the grays poking free. She wore a baggy sweatshirt with the word LONDON across the
Brooke said, “We don’t have time for this.”
Chick did that thing where you look the person in one eye, then the other, then back to the first. Myron just stood there and let him. You don’t judge a guy by his appearance. Win was the walking, talking embodiment of that. The guy was also hurting. You could see that too. He might be a vainglorious asshat, but his son had been snatched away from him ten years ago. You could see that in Chick’s face somehow, despite all he tried to do to cover it up.
So part of Myron felt sorry for the man.
And part of Myron remembered that Win didn’t like him.
“I tried my best,” Myron said to him. “He got away. I’m sorry about that.”
Chick hesitated and then nodded. “I’m sorry too. This has been . . .”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Brooke’s voice was gentle. “Chick?”
Chick gave Myron’s arm an apologetic squeeze as he turned toward his wife.
Brooke said, “Let’s go inside, okay?”
Chick nodded and joined her.
Brooke shaded her eyes with her right hand. “Myron?”
He glanced around and spotted a Costa coffee shop across the street. “I’ll wait there. Text if you need me.”
Chick and Brooke entered the hospital. Myron crossed the street and headed to the right for the Costa coffee shop. Costa was a chain coffee shop and resembled, more than anything else, a chain coffee shop. Swap the dark red décor for green and you could be in a Starbucks. Myron was sure that passionate defenders of either company would be offended by this observation, but Myron decided that he wouldn’t lose sleep over it.
He ordered a coffee from the barista, and then, realizing his stomach was growling, he checked out the food options. On that front—food variety—Costa seemed to have a leg up on its American competitor. He ordered a British Ham and Cheese Toastie. Toastie. “Toastie” was a cute word. Myron hadn’t heard it before, but he deduced, correctly as it turned out, that a “toastie” was probably a toasted sandwich.
Some stand in awe of Myron Bolitar’s power of deduction.
A text came in from Brooke: Not letting us see him. Told to wait.
Myron replied: Want me to come over?
Brooke: Not yet. Will keep you posted.
Myron sat at a table and ate the toastie. Not bad. He downed it too quickly and debated getting another. When had he last eaten? He sat back, drank his coffee, read articles that he’d saved on his smartphone. Time passed. The place was a little too quiet. Myron looked around at the drawn faces. Perhaps it was his imagination, but he could almost feel the misery hanging in the air. He was, of course, across the street from a hospital, so maybe that was why he was seeing suffering or anxiety, faces waiting for news, facesdreading news, faces that had come here to try to escape into the comforting sameness and normalcy of a chain coffee shop.
His phone vibrated. Another text message, this time from Terese: Got a job interview in Jackson Hole. For prime time anchor slot.
This was great news. Myron wrote back: Wow, that’s terrific.
Terese: Heading to owner’s ranch on his private plane tomorrow.
Myron: Great. I’m thrilled for you.
Terese: I don’t have the job.
Myron: You’ll kill the interview.
Terese: He can be a little handsy.
Myron: And I can kill him.
Terese: Love you, you know.
Myron: Love you too. But I mean it about killing him if he gets handsy.
Terese: You always know just what to say.
Myron was smiling. He was about to text a comeback when something caught his eye.
Or someone.
Nancy Moore, Patrick’s mother, had just entered the coffee shop. He typed a quick “Have to run” and hit send.
Where Brooke Baldwin was all strength and resolve, Nancy Moore looked small and drained. Her blond hair was pulled back into a rushed ponytail, the grays poking free. She wore a baggy sweatshirt with the word LONDON across the
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