The examining room was small and ringed with white metal cabinetry. Against one wall was a stainless steel sink, underneath an array of cleanser dispensers. A steel basket on the wall near the examining table held a blood pressure gauge and its rubbery black cord. The vital-signs monitors remained off, their black screens etched with frozen green and red lines. A plastic IV bag that read “Baxter” hung from a steel hook on the wall, dripping saline into the crook of Angus’s arm. He sank back into the thin pillow, his blue eyes reddish under a forehead dressed with a new gauze bandage. His cheekbone had sprouted another wound, he’d cracked a rib, and doctors were trying to determine if he had any internal injuries, besides a bruised ego.

“That jerk!” Angus said. If he felt weak, it didn’t show. “I would’ve kicked his ass if he’d been man enough to stop.”

“Peace, brother.”

“Screw peace!” Angus scowled. “That guy coulda killed us!”

“I know, but calm down.” Nat sat in a metal chair beside his bed, having sustained no injuries except an achy nose and a throbbing headache. She was oddly calm, either because Angus was so upset or because a car accident wasn’t as scary as attempted rape. Airbag powder dusted her camelhair coat, and she’d lost a shoe in the accident. Her wardrobe couldn’t take all this excitement.

“Drunk-ass jerk. A hit-and-run. That man should be shot!” Angus said.

“Aren’t you against capital punishment?”

“Except for drunk drivers. I’m making an exception.”

“What about Willie? And your principles?”

“Willie is the exception to the exception, and my principles hurt when I move.” Angus shifted unhappily in the undersize bed, and the top of his hospital gown revealed a sexy tangle of red-gold chest hair that Nat had been trying to ignore.

“Please, relax. The doctor told you to stay still, remember? He’s worried your spleen might be perforated.”

“Gross! Will it leak spleen juice? In front of the girls?”

Nat smiled. “No, but if it’s ruptured, he said you’ll need a splenectomy.”

“I knew I needed a splenectomy! I’ve been saying that for years. What’s a splenectomy?”

“You don’t want a splenectomy, Angus. You heard the doctor. It would have effects on your lymphatic system. You’d be susceptible to infections.” Nat didn’t remind him of what else the doctor had said. She was hoping it wouldn’t be an issue. She sensed Angus hadn’t focused on what the doctor was telling him during the examination. “I think they’re going to admit you. You sure you don’t want to call someone?”

“No one to call, except about work. I’ll call the clinic tomorrow to file Willie’s papers.” Angus seemed to quiet, and his gaze shifted to Nat, lingering on her face a moment. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Did you call Mr. Whatever?”

“Mr. Hank.”

“What did he say?”

Arg. “That’s not your business.” Nat didn’t want to think about how hurt Hank had sounded when she’d told him where she was and that she was with Angus. She felt like she’d cheated, though she hadn’t. She should have told him where she was going. History taught that the cover-up was always worse than the crime. You would think that she and Machik would learn.

“First the riot, now this.” Angus flopped back on his pillow. “Is this cosmic payback, Natalie?”

“For what?”

“My life’s work.”

“Of course not.”

“My head hurts.”

“Close your eyes.” Nat reached over as he complied, and she dimmed the harsh overhead lights and sat back down. “Payback for what, anyway? You represent the tired, the poor, the huddled masses. You have karma to spare. Pro bono karma.”

“Yeah, right.” Angus opened his eyes as if he’d just thought of something, or his rib poked his spleen.

“What’s the matter?”

“More what-ifs.” He shifted up in bed, wincing. “What if this was no accident tonight?”

“You mean our accident?” Nat wasn’t sure she understood.

“Yes. What if that truck meant to hit us? What if it was related to the phone calls, last night?”

Stay outta Chester County. Nat couldn’t tell if Angus was paranoid or brilliant.

“Well, you two look familiar,” a masculine voice said from the doorway. Nat turned. Two uniformed state troopers in black insulated jackets stood in the doorway, the same ones who had questioned her in the ambulance after the prison riot.

“Hello, again,” Nat said, rising. She was still thinking about what Angus had said. What if it hadn’t been an accident?

“Trooper Bert Milroy, Professor,” the trooper said, sliding his black glove from his hand and shaking hers. His eyes looked tired, and his bony nose was still red at the tip from the cold, as if he hadn’t warmed up in two days. He jerked a thumb at the younger cop who stood beside him, the one with the faint scars. “You remember Trooper Johnston.”

“Nice to see you again,” the second trooper said, as Trooper Milroy stepped toward the bed.

“How you doin’, Holt?”

“I’ve been better.”

“That was quite an accident out there tonight. You caused a pileup. No fatals, fortunately. Four cars, you, and another totaled. That section of I-95 is still closed.” Trooper Milroy slid his pad from his back pocket and extracted a ballpoint from under his jacket. “The other drivers report a late-model Ford F-250 pickup, maybe 2002, black, driving erratically. Can you corroborate?”

“Yes,” Angus and Nat answered in unison, as the trooper flipped back a few pages, then scribbled as he stood, rocking back on shiny shoes edged with melting snow.

“Did you get a license plate, folks?”

“It was from Delaware,” Angus answered. “I didn’t get the number.”

“Me, neither,” Nat said

“One of the other drivers got it, so we’ll go with that.” Trooper Milroy turned to Nat. “Did you see the driver? You were on the passenger side, correct?”

“Correct, but I don’t remember seeing him.” Nat tried to remember. “The truck was higher than the VW. The window was dark.”

“Smoked windows?”

“I don’t know. It had a Calvin decal.”

“I’ve seen those.” Trooper Milroy made a note, then clicked his pen closed and slipped pen and notepad into his pocket. “Thanks, folks.”

“Before you go,” Angus said, clearing his throat, “Natalie and I were discussing the possibility that the truck was trying to hit us. Last night, we both got phone calls warning us to stay out of Chester County. Today we went out to the prison and got hit on the way back.”

“It does seem very coincidental,” Nat added, though she wasn’t completely convinced.

“You think the pickup driver tried to kill you?” Trooper Milroy arched an eyebrow under his wide brim, though his tone remained professional. “We have no evidence of that, and you know better than to speculate. Night like this, with black ice everywhere, we got five accidents already. One fatal.”

Angus said, “He tailgated us, dangerously so.”

“Tailgating’s common on that stretch, and our information is that he was switching lanes erratically. Other drivers corroborated it. That’s a drunk.”

Nat considered it. “He wasn’t drunk enough to stay at the scene. He drove away. I don’t even know how he did that, if his airbag went off.”

“Could be he disabled it,” the other trooper interjected. “My wife drives a little Ranger pickup and she had me disable our airbags, because it’s dangerous with the baby, in his car seat.”

Trooper Milroy shot him an annoyed look, and Angus scoffed. “This guy didn’t drive like a good daddy.”

“You say you each got phone calls?” Trooper Milroy asked. “What did they say?”

“A man warned us to stay out of Chester County.”

“Did you report it to the Philly police, or to us?”

“What’s the difference?” Angus frowned. “And if you think about it, the fact that the driver was acting drunk doesn’t mean that he was. Maybe he was faking it, to throw everybody off.”

“That’s pure speculation,” Milroy said. “We’ll find this guy. Drunks never stop the night they have an accident because we breathalyze’em. Dollars to doughnuts, he’ll come in of his own accord tomorrow morning, with his lawyer.”

But Nat had another question. There’d still been no return call from Barb Saunders. “Any suspects on the burglary at the Saunders residence, by the way? The house of the prison guard who was killed?”

“Sorry, that’s not our case.”

Suddenly, Hank and Paul appeared at the door, their hair messy and cheeks ruddy from the cold. Next to the uniformed troopers, they looked oddly civilian in their dark wool topcoats, worn over sweatclothes and basketball sneakers. Hank’s brown eyes softened when he saw Nat.

“Babe, you okay?” he asked, excusing himself as he walked past the troopers. On the way over, he glanced at Angus, who nodded in acknowledgment. Nat cut short the awkward moment by stepping over to him.

“I’m fine.” She gave him a warm I’m-sorry hug. He smelled the way he always did after basketball, his waning aftershave heightened by a faint sweat.

“Nothing broken?” Hank pulled gently away, assessing any damage.

“No.”

“Thank God,” he said, though Nat noticed he avoided her eye.

Paul introduced himself to the troopers, then started in. “I HEARD IT WAS A DRUNK DRIVER. HE COULDA KILLED MY SISTER! HOW THE HELL DID HE GET AWAY?”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Greco. We have his plate and—”

“YOU HAVE THE LICENSE PLATE? THEN WHY DON’T YOU JUST ARREST HIM?”

“We’re a little shorthanded tonight, with all the—”

“THEN WHY DON’T YOU GO? THE DRUNK DRIVER’S NOT IN THE HOSPITAL, OFFICER.”

Nat stifled a moan. “Paul, please.”

“GIVE ME THE DAMN PLATE NUMBER! MY FATHER WILL HIRE A P.I. TO FIND HIM. HE’LL BE HERE ANY MINUTE!”

Oh no. Dad? Here?

Trooper Milroy said, “My captain happens to be outside, if you want to speak with him, Mr. Greco.”

“YOU’RE DAMN RIGHT I DO.” Paul whirled around on his squeaky Iversons. “BE RIGHT BACK, NAT.” The decibel level lowered as soon as he left with the troopers, but the tension level increased. The small room contained only Nat, Hank, and Angus. She told herself there was no reason for this meeting to be strained. It wasn’t like the three of them were in a love triangle or anything. Still she was having an out-of-hospital-room experience.

“Hank, this is Angus Holt, from school,” Nat said, attempting to dispel the undercurrents.

“Nice to see ya.” Hank extended a hand, and Angus winced when they shook. Hank said, “Uh, sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry about all this.”

“Not your doing.” Hank smiled in a polite way. “How long you gonna be here, buddy?”

“Day or two. I’m happy Natalie’s not hurt.”

“Natalie.” Hank repeated. “Right. Sure. Nat.”

Gnat. Terrific. Time to go. Before my head explodes.

Hank nodded once, then again, plainly uncomfortable. “Nat, did you wanna go or stay?”

“Go,” Nat and Angus answered, in unfortunate unison. She added unnecessarily, “I’m discharged, so I can leave anytime. I was waiting for you, Hank.” Faithfully. And I wasn’t turned on by his chest hair.

“We’ll call your dad and tell him to turn around. They must’ve got held up in traffic.”

“Okay, let’s go.” Nat took her coat from the back of the chair, and Hank quickly stepped over to help her put it on, which he always did. It felt heavier than usual, and she wondered if the wool was weighted down with guilt, like a new fabric blend. She said lightly, “Okay, well, hope you feel better, Angus!”

“Thanks,” Angus said, like a normal person, because he wasn’t insane.

“See you, buddy.” Hank put a hand on Nat’s back, guiding her out of the room. “Let’s go home.”

Home. It sounded so good. She could shower and change, and they could have a glass of chardonnay, and she could explain everything and make his hurt go away. Hurt that he wouldn’t admit to her, or even to himself, buried beneath his easygoing guy-ness. They could sort it all out, alone together. They were overdue for a talk.

“Your parents are beside themselves.” Hank pulled his cell phone from a pocket and pressed speed dial as they went through a wooden door and down a corridor to the wide automatic doors, which slid open. “We’ll give ’em a call and we can all go home.”

“Wait.” Nat got hit by a blast of cold air. “By home, you mean my parents’ house?”

“Big John!” Hank barked into the phone. “I got the horse right here. She’s fine. Turn around and we’ll see you at home.”

Big John. Her father. Her brothers. Paul.

“HANK! WAIT’LL YOU GET A LOAD OF THIS!” Paul shouted, hurrying toward them from a police cruiser parked in the emergency lot.

My head hurts. And for some reason, so does my heart.

“I GOT TWO SIXERS TICKETS!”

“Excellent!” Hank called back, throwing a heavy arm around Nat, and she knew that this would be their last moment alone until midnight.

 

“We should talk about this.” Nat leaned wearily in the doorway to her bathroom, still dressed, while Hank buzzed his teeth in his blue boxers and bare feet. He nodded, holding the electric toothbrush against his incisors. His lips drooped over the brush like a basset hound’s.

“Would you turn off the brush?” Nat asked.

“I can hear you,” Hank answered, but it sounded like I ckn heor bu. Bzzz.

“Okay, fine. I know you didn’t want me to go out to Chester County, but I felt I had to, after we heard that Saunders’s widow was burglarized.”

Bzzz. “You didn’t go see the widow, you went to the prison.”

“I couldn’t reach her. I didn’t think it was dangerous because I was with Angus. He got the same call, by the way.”

“You don’t belong at the prison. You belong at the law school. You’re a professor, not a criminal. Or a criminal lawyer.”

Nat let it go. They’d had this conversation in the car. At least he was calmer now. “Let’s agree to disagree.”

Bzzz. “Whatever that means.”

“I just wanted to say I was sorry for going out there with Angus today and not telling you.”

Bzzz. “Okay.” Hank steered the brush onto his top teeth, holding it in place for ten seconds, which she knew he counted off in his head. For a messy guy, Hank Ballisteri took his dental health very seriously.

“It does seem like there’s a cover-up at the prison, and we may follow up on that legally.”

Bzzzz. Hank nodded. Four, five, six.

“You know there’s nothing going on between me and Angus. I work with him, and that’s all. The accident wasn’t his fault, obviously. If it was an accident.”

“What?” Hank lowered the toothbrush at eight, his mouth foamy with greenish gel. “What do you mean if it was an accident?”

Oops. “I don’t know, exactly.” Nat wasn’t sure yet, and it was late. “It does seem odd that I get a threat not to go to Chester County, then the next time I go to Chester County, I get in a car accident.”

“You got hit in Philadelphia County, and of course it was an accident. That driver was drunk. Your dad would find him by dawn if the cops gave him the plate number.”

“They’re not going to give it to him. It’s police business.”

“If it’s about you, it’s his business.”

“Honestly, no, it’s not,” Nat said, more emphatically than necessary. But that was the whole damn point. “If it’s anybody’s business, it’s my business.”

“Your father is crazy about you. You’re his little girl. You should be grateful he goes to the mat for you.” Hank frowned. “My dad couldn’t be bothered. You don’t know how lucky you are.”

Grrr. “I need you to understand this. I love my family, but sometimes I get enough Greco. Don’t you?”

“What? You are a Greco.”

“I mean those Grecos. Don’t you ever get tired of being with them? All together, all the time?”

“No.” Hank switched the brush back on and started buzzing. One, two, three.

“But I’m thirty.”

“What does that mean?” Bzzz.

“It means I’m glad you’re so close to them, but…” Nat faltered. She used to love the way Hank had embraced her family, and vice versa. He had been her admission ticket into her own house, and with him, they accepted her in a way they hadn’t before. But now she couldn’t pull Hank and her family apart, nor could she make him understand why she’d want to. Bewilderment troubled his usually smooth brow.

“What am I supposed to do, Nat? Blow off your father, your brothers? Quit my job? They’re my business partners. My friends. I love them.”

“I love them, too.”

“Do you?”

“Of course I do.”

“You don’t get sick of people you love.”

“Yes, you do.” Nat felt that knot in her chest tighten, and Hank turned away, switching off the brush and reapplying toothpaste. Bzzzzzz. One, two, three.

“What’s important here is you and me. I’m sorry if you felt embarrassed that I hadn’t told you I’d be going to the prison, and I don’t have anything to hide. There’s nothing going on between me and Angus.”

“I know that.” Hank spat into the sink, turned on the water, then moved onto his bicuspids. Five, six. “I still think he’s a loser.”

Ouch. “Why?”

“The beard? The ponytail? He’s a joke.”

Nat reached over and turned off the water.

“Why do you do that?” Hank frowned, buzzing his teeth. Seven, eight, nine. “You always do that when I brush.”

“Because you take a long time to brush your teeth, and it wastes water to run it while you’re brushing.”

“You’re worried about the water bill now?” Hank moved onto the next tooth and turned the water on again. “I’ll pay you.”

“That’s not the point. It’s the waste. It’s all the water we have on the planet.” Nat turned the faucet off, hard, and Hank looked down at her as if she were nuts.

“Babe, the planet, as you put it, is like, 99% water. We could never run out of water.”

“It’s still a shame to waste it. Don’t you care about anything bigger than yourself?”

“Fine.” Hank spat into the sink, switched off the toothbrush, and shoved it, unrinsed, into the plastic caddy. “I think that accident scrambled your brains.”

“Thanks.”

“Sorry, but you’ve been in a foul mood all night. At your folks’ house. Here.”

It was true, and Nat knew it. “Excuse me, but I was in a car accident.”

“How about I give you some time alone?” Hank asked. “Why don’t I go to my place tonight?”

Nat paused. She knew this routine by heart. They rarely fought, but when they did, it was simply separate and reconvene the next day, as if nothing had happened, at which point one or the other of them would say they had been tired, that’s all.

“Well, Nat? Your call. You want me to go?”

No. Yes. No. Yes. “Okay, fine.”

“Good.” Hank brushed past her, banged around in the bedroom getting his clothes and sneakers, and trundled back into the hall half dressed. “Call you tomorrow,” he said as he left.

Nat heard the door close, with a new note of finality.