by Lee Goldberg
"He speaks it like a native. A woman at the Agency taught him. He tells me he passes for Mexican all the time and no one raises an eyebrow."
"He always was dark, Lionel."
"Yes."
"Got that from his father, I suppose." I turn back to her. "Speaking of which," I say, but she's already off the bed and standing, pulling on her coat.
"What do you think you're doing?"
"I shouldn't have come."
"Hold on." I cross to her but she backs away.
"Don't, Frank."
"I'm not doing anything."
"Exactly." She puts on her hat.
"Well, what do you expect? What do you want from me?"
"Help, Frank. I wanted your help."
"You'll get it."
"Will I?" She's not looking at me. She's looking at the bag on the desk.
"Don't say it."
"What should I say? I'd heard you'd changed."
"I have."
"I'd like to believe that. I did believe it. But then I come here, I see the bag, the basket."
"Basket? What basket?"
She points to the far bedside table. Next to the unlit lamp is a wicker bowl filled with pink silk roses, a card and two long-necked bottles of champagne. I blink, but it's still there. "That's not mine," I say. "I didn't order that."
She nods. "I've got to go."
"Not yet." I snag her arm and pull her close. "Stay a while, Ingrid."
"I can't."
"Yes you can. Give me a chance."
"Lionel," she said. "Lionel's your chance." She takes my hand but only to press something into it. An envelope. "This is his last letter," she says. "It was sent to me by mistake. Maybe you can make some sense of it."
"I will."
She nods, blinks, backs away. "Your face," she says, "I hope it heals."
"It always does," I say, watching her go.
FB2 document info
Document ID: 6d58a249-1940-4188-855f-401341510d7f
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 31.8.2012
Created using: calibre 0.8.67, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software
Document authors :
Lee Goldberg
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