Chapter Forty-Three

Dexter didn't have a P7M8 in stock, but his reference list proved invaluable, especially when I mentioned that money was no object to this particular client. The piece was delivered in less than an hour, and Trey's Amex Platinum was down $2500. He insisted on breaking down and inspecting it—a decision I totally agreed with—so while he cleaned it, I fetched his requested ammo, some Remington HTPs.

"On the house," I said.

He fed the eight rounds into the magazine and inserted it. "I have to try this before we go."

"Of course. I'll do the same."

He noticed the purse then, this brand new black leather number completely unlike my somewhat ratty tote bag.

"It’s a carry bag I'm testing for the shop," I said, showing it to him. "Zipper opening, holster insert. Lockable. Plus an exterior lipstick pocket because of course it does."

"You have your carry permit?"

I held up the piece of paper. "Came in the mail this morning."

I could see the gears whirring in his head. But he knew the law as well as I did, and he knew I was within my rights to bring a weapon. The Beaumont reception was a private gathering on private property, teeming with conservative 2nd Amendment zealots. Unless someone asked me to leave, I had every legal right to be locked and loaded.

"What do you have in there?" he said.

"Smith and Wesson Model 40. Compact, light, hammer cover to prevent it from snagging on a fancy dress." I smiled. "You didn't think I'd arm you to the teeth and then carry around just a nail file for myself, did you?"

* * *

We went by the range on the way out. As I expected, Trey exterminated the target. I did pretty well myself. And considering all that had gone on, a purse full of deadly force swinging on my hip felt really good.

Traffic out to Lake Oconee was unusually heavy, and I guessed from the way the helicopters hovered in a knot above the interstate that there was an accident up ahead, or some other perversity that I couldn't possibly predict. I played with the air vents and watched the city inch by, surrounded by the sounds of a thousand other motors of a thousand other people.

"Can I ask you something?” I said. “Not about the case or Gabriella. About you."

He nodded. Two small travel cases rested behind us, toiletries for me, a satchel of paperwork for him.

"When I was at your desk, I found this GQ magazine, and I couldn't help wondering…It's hard to figure out the question I want to ask."

Trey offered no help whatsoever. I stumbled on.

"Garrity said that after the accident, you bought this car, the apartment, the suits. And then I noticed that the magazine had everything in it, just like Garrity described. And I thought, this can't be a coincidence."

"You’re correct. It's not a coincidence." He kept his eyes on the road. "But I had to do something. And having a template worked. It still works. The decisions are too difficult otherwise."

"I don't understand."

"It's hard to explain. When I came home from rehab, it was…strange. None of my things felt mine. I knew they were. I hadn’t forgotten them. But nonetheless…not mine."

I'd never considered such a thing. I liked low-slung jeans and chunky boots. Shrimp, but not scallops. The color red. How did I know these things?

"Are you mad?" I said.

He frowned. "Why would I be mad?"

"Well, if I had a secret, I'd be mad if someone stumbled onto it."

"It's not a secret. It's just information that I tell very few people."

"Like Gabriella."

The mention of her name sounded like a warning bell. Of the two people closest to him in the whole world, one had apparently betrayed him. I pressed on, however.

"Why won't you admit that she's up to something?"

He thought about it. "I told you, I need evidence. Her guilt contradicts other facts about her that I already have."

"So replace the facts. Like you replaced your stuff."

"It's not that easy. I think it used to be, before the accident. Garrity says I had good instincts. He says I was very intuitive. But now…I can sort fact from fiction, but I can't figure out what they mean." He looked at the glove compartment. "Like those. They used to mean something to me. I keep thinking I'll understand it again, but I never do."

I remembered then, from the car chase. "The rosary beads?"

"Yes. They were my mother's. Garrity was looking for them for the funeral. He thinks they were lost in the accident, but I had them. Have them, I mean. The clasp is broken. I told her I’d have it fixed, but…"

His voice was steady and calm, with no hint of emotion, but I felt the impact nonetheless. One thing he’d kept from his life before. Just one.

I fingered the glove compartment handle. "May I?"

He nodded, and I took them out. They were cool to the touch, small round stones of gray-green marble with a finely chased Celtic Cross in antique silver.

"Connemara marble," he said. "From Ireland. That's where my mother was born. County Donegal."

I held them in my hand, and they felt like faith is supposed to feel—solid, soothing, tangible. He was still looking straight ahead, his hands resting lightly on the wheel.

"I'm trying to explain something to you," he said, "and I can't. It's about those, and Gabriella, and about the accident itself, but…I'm looking for a word."

I shook my head. "There isn't one. It's too much for words."

He thought about that.

"Yes," he said finally. "Perhaps you're right."