sleep yet.
She forced herself upright, stripped, and crawled underneath her comforter. Good enough. That would have to be good enough. Yes, she was getting warmer, although she still hurt.
And then the phone beeped. Shit. Could Sergei have gotten information about Camilla and Leon and Mason so quickly? No, it wasn't Sergei's signal. She could just ignore it; it must be a wrong number. Nobody ever called her except Sergei.
She lifted the receiver with improbably heavy fingers and let it drop again. There.
But the phone beeped again. Wrong number, definitely. Roberta groaned and dragged the phone into bed with her, turned it over, fumbled to find the ringer-off switch. Damned ancient phone: it was probably even older than Mr. Clean.
The receiver had fallen onto the bed. A voice came from it. It wasn't Sergei's voice. "Hello, Roberta."
She froze. Then she picked up the receiver and said very carefully, "I'm sorry, I'm afraid you have the wrong number."
"The connection is secure, Roberta. I am sorry to bother you, but you had not responded to the messages I left on your answering machine."
You can't say his name now, or the bugs will pick-it up. You can't even threaten him with harassment if he keeps calling, because then Sergei will guess who it is. Your lawyer warned you to keep Preston out of this. "I can't talk," she said. ''I'm too tired." What would Sergei think when he heard her talking on the phone and couldn't gain access to the other half of the conversation?
"Please," Preston said, "would you please just tell me if my daughter is safe, Roberta? She is in the apartment directly underneath you."
Meredith. Of course he was calling about Meredith. "She's fine," Roberta said bitterly. "She's on my couch."
"Thank you, Roberta. Thank you very much. Would you please keep her with you for a few days?"
"No, I don't think so." If I'd known who it was, she wouldn't be here now.
"Please, Roberta. I can help you find Fred."
Instantly she was alert, riding a rush of joy of which she was ashamed. She wanted to rattle off questions, but she didn't want Preston to know how much she cared. He was just pushing her buttons. Of course he knew where Fred was; he'd always known. That was the only thing that had ever made sense. "I see," she said coldly. "And-the other one?"
"I cannot tell you where Nicholas is."
"Because you don't know?"
"Because the information I have would endanger my daughter's already fragile condition. Roberta, I know you are angry with me, and for good cause. I also know you are a good and kind person. Please: have mercy." Have mercy. He'd told her that once before, and it had brought her nothing but trouble. "Please take care of Meredith for the next few days. Can you do that? Can you bring her back home when she is well enough? I believe that both of you will find the information you want there."
"Absolutely not," Roberta said. "That's not my job." There: Sergei would be proud of her.
"There is no one else, Roberta. Kevin died in the storm. I am trusting you not to let Meredith know that yet, not until she is strong enough to hear it. I am trusting you to help her when she finds out. Her mother and I will help her when we can, but she would not allow it yet. She will accept help from you. She already has."
Roberta, dizzy, found herself swallowing bile. Kevin was dead? Poor Kevin. Poor Meredith!
No. Meredith wasn't a poor anything. Meredith was a bitch. And Kevin was probably still alive; Preston was probably lying to get Roberta to do what he wanted. No: Even Preston wouldn't lie about someone's death—would he? Poor Kevin!
Despite her fear and anger and exhaustion, the compassion came anyway. She couldn't help it; it had always been her downfall. And then she realized that the line had gone dead. Preston hadn't waited for
She forced herself upright, stripped, and crawled underneath her comforter. Good enough. That would have to be good enough. Yes, she was getting warmer, although she still hurt.
And then the phone beeped. Shit. Could Sergei have gotten information about Camilla and Leon and Mason so quickly? No, it wasn't Sergei's signal. She could just ignore it; it must be a wrong number. Nobody ever called her except Sergei.
She lifted the receiver with improbably heavy fingers and let it drop again. There.
But the phone beeped again. Wrong number, definitely. Roberta groaned and dragged the phone into bed with her, turned it over, fumbled to find the ringer-off switch. Damned ancient phone: it was probably even older than Mr. Clean.
The receiver had fallen onto the bed. A voice came from it. It wasn't Sergei's voice. "Hello, Roberta."
She froze. Then she picked up the receiver and said very carefully, "I'm sorry, I'm afraid you have the wrong number."
"The connection is secure, Roberta. I am sorry to bother you, but you had not responded to the messages I left on your answering machine."
You can't say his name now, or the bugs will pick-it up. You can't even threaten him with harassment if he keeps calling, because then Sergei will guess who it is. Your lawyer warned you to keep Preston out of this. "I can't talk," she said. ''I'm too tired." What would Sergei think when he heard her talking on the phone and couldn't gain access to the other half of the conversation?
"Please," Preston said, "would you please just tell me if my daughter is safe, Roberta? She is in the apartment directly underneath you."
Meredith. Of course he was calling about Meredith. "She's fine," Roberta said bitterly. "She's on my couch."
"Thank you, Roberta. Thank you very much. Would you please keep her with you for a few days?"
"No, I don't think so." If I'd known who it was, she wouldn't be here now.
"Please, Roberta. I can help you find Fred."
Instantly she was alert, riding a rush of joy of which she was ashamed. She wanted to rattle off questions, but she didn't want Preston to know how much she cared. He was just pushing her buttons. Of course he knew where Fred was; he'd always known. That was the only thing that had ever made sense. "I see," she said coldly. "And-the other one?"
"I cannot tell you where Nicholas is."
"Because you don't know?"
"Because the information I have would endanger my daughter's already fragile condition. Roberta, I know you are angry with me, and for good cause. I also know you are a good and kind person. Please: have mercy." Have mercy. He'd told her that once before, and it had brought her nothing but trouble. "Please take care of Meredith for the next few days. Can you do that? Can you bring her back home when she is well enough? I believe that both of you will find the information you want there."
"Absolutely not," Roberta said. "That's not my job." There: Sergei would be proud of her.
"There is no one else, Roberta. Kevin died in the storm. I am trusting you not to let Meredith know that yet, not until she is strong enough to hear it. I am trusting you to help her when she finds out. Her mother and I will help her when we can, but she would not allow it yet. She will accept help from you. She already has."
Roberta, dizzy, found herself swallowing bile. Kevin was dead? Poor Kevin. Poor Meredith!
No. Meredith wasn't a poor anything. Meredith was a bitch. And Kevin was probably still alive; Preston was probably lying to get Roberta to do what he wanted. No: Even Preston wouldn't lie about someone's death—would he? Poor Kevin!
Despite her fear and anger and exhaustion, the compassion came anyway. She couldn't help it; it had always been her downfall. And then she realized that the line had gone dead. Preston hadn't waited for
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