highlighting fresh toilet paper rolls, folded towels, and a lineup of spray bottles.
Matthias’s door still had the Do Not Disturb sign on it, and she took that to mean he hadn’t checked out. Putting her ear to the panels, she sent up a quick prayer that he wouldn’t pick this moment to open up.
No running water. No muttering from the TV. No deep voice on the phone.
She knocked. Knocked a little louder.
“Matthias,” she said to the door. “It’s me. Open up.”
As she waited for a response that didn’t come, she glanced over at the maid who had come out with a plastic bag full of trash. For a split second, she considered playing the whole I-forgot-my-key-card thing, but in post-9/11 Caldwell, she had a feeling that wasn’t going to work—and might end up with her getting tossed out on her hey- nanny-nanny.
Well, wasn’t this a credit to her character: The invasion of his privacy wasn’t even on her no-go radar; it was the fear of getting caught that stopped her.
Disgusted with herself, and pissed off at him, Mels hit the elevator again, and when she got to the first floor, she intended to march out to Tony’s car, get in the damn thing, and be wicked early for her meeting with Monty and his flapping gums.
Instead, she casualed her way around the lobby, peeking into the gift shop, wandering down to the spa…
Yeah, ’cuz of course he’d be buying bathrobes and getting a cucumber wrap on his face. Right.
When she came up to the main restaurant that was open, she nearly abandoned the wild-goose chase, but it only took a moment to peer in—
On the other side of the tables of diners, sitting at a window, Matthias was eating with a brunette woman in a limoncello-colored dress.
Who was she—
Was that the nurse? From the hospital?
“Would you like a table for one?” the maître d’ asked.
Ah, yeah, that would be a negative—unless the thing came equipped with an airsick bag. “No, thanks.”
Across the way, the brunette started to laugh, throwing her head back so that her hair flowed all around. She was so perfectly beautiful, it was as if she were a moving photograph that had been touched up in all the right places.
As Matthias sat accross from her, he was hard to read, and in an absurd moment of possessiveness, Mels was glad he was wearing her sunglasses. Like that was the equivalent of her pissing on his fence post.
“Are you meeting someone, then?” the maître d’ asked.
“No,” she replied. “I do believe he’s busy.”
Chapter Twenty-three
Dee’s laughter was…well, kind of divine, as a matter of fact. To the point where it fritzed out part of Matthias’s brain, and he couldn’t think of what he’d said that was so funny.
“So how’s your memory?” she asked.
“Spotty.”
“It’ll come back. It’s only been, what, a day and a half?” She leaned to the side as her plate of eggs, sausage, toast, and hash browns arrived. “Give it time.”
His bagel looked anemic in comparison.
“Are you sure that’s all you want?” She gesticulated with her fork. “You need to put on weight. Myself, I’m a strong believer that a big breakfast is the only way to start the day.”
“It’s nice to be around a woman who doesn’t pick at her food.”
“Yup, that’s not me.” She motioned for the waitress to come back over. “He wants what I have. Thanks.”
It seemed rude to point out that if he ate that much he was going to explode, so he just pushed the bagel aside. She was probably right. He felt out of it, sluggish and empty, the club sandwich he’d had for dinner with Mels having been long burned off thanks to that ninja motherfucker with the happy trigger finger.
“Don’t wait for me,” he said.
“I wasn’t going to.”
Matthias smiled coldly and passed some time glancing around the room. Most people were exactly what he’d expect in a hotel like this…except for one guy over in the corner who looked seriously out of place: He was wearing a suit that was cut better than everybody else’s, and seemed dated even to the fashionless eye.
Hell, the getup might have been worn to a flapper party—or maybe back in the Roaring Twenties themselves—
As if sensing he was being looked at, the man lifted his eyes with an aristocratic air.
Matthias refocused on his dining companion. Dee was going at her food with precise cuts of her fork, the thin edge pushing easily through the scrambled and the hash.
“Sometimes not remembering is a good thing,” she said.
Yeah, he thought, he had a feeling that was especially true in his case. God, if that story Jim had fed him was—
“And I didn’t mean to be evasive about my father,” she said. “It’s just…he’s nothing I like to think about.” Her fork drifted down to settle on the plate as she stared out the window. “I’d do anything to forget him. He was…a violent man—an evil, violent man.”
With a quick shift, her stare came back to his and locked on. “Do you know what I’m talking about. Matthias—”
Abruptly, another one of those headaches came from out of nowhere, barging through his thought processes and zeroing in on his temples, twin shots of pain heating up on either side of his skull.
Dimly, he saw that Dee’s perfect red mouth was moving, but the words weren’t reaching him; it was as if he had pulled out of his body, even as his flesh stayed where it was…and then the very interior of the restaurant began to recede, sure as if the walls had hinged loose and fallen outward, morphing all
He was on the second floor of a farmhouse, rough wood planking marking the floors, walls, and ceiling. The stairwell in front of him was steep, the banister made from pine that had darkened to the color of tar from the oils of countless hands having gripped it.
The air was stale, and stuffy, although it wasn’t hot.
Matthias looked behind himself, into a room that he recognized as his own. The twin bed had mismatched blankets and no pillows…the bureau had scratches on it and pulls that were halfway attached…there was no rug. But on the little table next to where he slept, a brand-new radio with fake wood trim and a silver dial sat pristine and out of place.
Glancing down, he saw he was wearing a ragged pair of pants, and that his feet stuck way out from the rolled-up hems; his hands were the same, oversized compared to his thin forearms, his extremities too big for the rest of his body.
He remembered this stage of his life, knew that he was young. Fourteen or fifteen—
A sound brought his head around.
A man was coming up the stairs. Overalls were dirty; hair was slicked with sweat, as if a hat or a baseball cap had been locked on it for hours; boots were loud.
Big man. Tall man.
Mean man.
His father.
All at once, everything shifted, his consciousness de-coupling from his flesh such that he was no longer able to control the body he was in, the steering wheel having been taken over by someone else.
All he could do was stare out of his eye sockets as his father turned the corner at the head of the stairs and
