The Drowning Child

Gary said nothing.

‘Oh,’ said Ren. ‘I get it. Do you think you’re going to leave Karen for her?’

He gave her a side glance, but didn’t answer.

They arrived at the bar. Sitting on the arm of a sofa, dressed in a navy-blue suit, was Paul Louderback, his arms folded, his long legs crossed. He looked like he was cut-and-pasted from an elegant drawing room. He saw Ren, smiled warmly, stood up.

My heart …

He’s married.

Ben is dead.

Nice.

Standing beside Paul, with her back to them, was Sylvie Ross, her thick sandy hair in a high ponytail. She was dressed in a white shirt, slim-fit gray pants, pointed black heels.

Great ass. Poor shoe choice.

Sylvie turned around, and her face lit up as she saw Gary over Ren’s shoulder.

God, is that what that looks like?

I still don’t know if you and Paul Louderback have slept together. Do I need to sleep with Gary to even this all out?

Everyone greeted each other, everyone was professional.

Oh, what a tangled web we weave.

Gary and Ren filled Sylvie and Paul in on the case over dinner.

‘Paul – you’ll be taking charge of the command center,’ said Gary. ‘I’m guessing the best thing for Sylvie to start with tomorrow is talking to Caleb Veir’s friends.’

Paul nodded.

‘Sure,’ said Sylvie. ‘Not a problem.’

She is freakishly intense with him.

Oh, now – I get it: yes, Gary nearly died, and Sylvie realized – uh-oh – how much she loves him.

It appears to be an alarming amount.

Sylvie started to pour Ren more wine. Ren held up her hand. ‘I’m good, thanks.’

Gary and Paul both stared at her.

‘Thanks, guys,’ said Ren. ‘Thanks.’

An hour later, Sylvie was the first to excuse herself. Gary left thirty minutes later.

When they were gone, Paul made a show of checking his watch. ‘Half an hour … standard time for one lover to ask another to wait before running up to join them?’ There was a sparkle in his eye.

‘Behave,’ said Ren.

‘Come on …’

I’m committing to nada.

‘So, are they?’ said Paul.

‘No, they’re not,’ said Ren.

‘OK,’ said Paul, with no conviction.

‘And no one should use the word “lover”.’

‘I have definitely heard you say “I’m a lover, not a fighter”.’

‘No one other than me, then …’

He smiled. ‘Now that I have cornered you alone,’ he said, ‘how are you doing? Really doing? You were very quiet over dinner.’

‘I was enjoying everyone else,’ said Ren. ‘I’m finding it hard to raise my game.’

‘You were perfectly pleasant, but …’

‘Struggling – I know.’

‘That’s understandable, after what you’ve been through.’

Tears welled in her eyes. She blinked them away. ‘I keep crying randomly.’ You don’t cry. Tears well, you blink, they’re gone. And you think the feelings go with them.

‘It’s not random,’ said Paul. ‘We’re talking about your boyfriend, your friends, your colleagues—’

‘It’s all so weird,’ said Ren. ‘I’m not a widow; Ben and I weren’t “long-term loves”. Just a year. But I did love him.’

You don’t know what love is. You’re not a victim. You don’t know how to love. And he doesn’t want to hear about love.

‘Have you thought about grief counseling?’ said Paul.

‘I’d rather shoot myself in the ass.’

‘Vivid,’ said Paul.

Ren smiled, took a drink. ‘But enough about me – how are you doing? How’s Marianne?’

‘Well,’ he said, drawing out the word, ‘the easy answer would be “great” …’