Page 50 of Full Contact

Peaches watched me from the window bed as I told her goodnight.

In the elevator, I entered Friday in my calendar.

Trier, 7:00.

I usually put a purpose beside a name. I looked at the entry for another floor, then saved it as it was.

***

Trier’s update hit the list at nine thirty-five the next morning.

Trier: Recheck done. Dr. Feld is satisfied with her progress. Same home instructions through the weekend. She has been compensated for another blood draw and is reviewing the invoice.

The photograph showed Peaches on the little wooden chair, upright and unimpressed, the shaved patch visible on her foreleg. Kelsey answered with a row of hearts. Anna sent a thumbs up.

I texted him off the thread.

Mark: Good news. How did she handle the draw?

Trier: Held still, then gave the tech a look she’ll remember. Dr. Feld says the values are back where they should be.

Mark: And you?

There was a pause.

Trier: Better after hearing the numbers.

Mark: Me too. What are you thinking for dinner?

Trier: Pasta. There’s a place nearby that makes a good lasagna.

Mark: You had me at pasta.

I spent the afternoon in meetings that needed me less than they thought, and left at five thirty with my laptop closed and a bag I’d packed that morning sitting in my trunk. The bag held a toothbrush, a change of clothes, and what I needed for a shower. I’d stood in my closet deciding whether packing it was presumptuous and concluded that at my age, optimism was a positive character trait.

At seven I checked in at the front desk and texted Trier.

Mark: Downstairs.

Trier: Come up. Door’s unlocked.

The doorman waved me toward the elevators after speaking to him. Upstairs, I tapped on Trier’s door before opening it. He met me in the entryway in a gray T-shirt, jeans, and socks.

“You’re punctual.”

“I’m in demand. Ask anyone.”

The condo smelled of Italian food. Trier gave me a quick welcome kiss, touched the bag over my shoulder, and nodded toward the hall. “Bedroom’s the second door. Bathroom’s got a free shelf on the left—if you need it.”

His bedroom had a dark blue quilt on the bed, walnut nightstands, and a framed photograph of a fox standing in deep snow. On the nightstand, a copy of National Geographic lay open to an article about ancient shipwrecks.

A low bench at the foot of the mattress held a folded blanket dusted with orange fur. I set my bag on the empty end and glanced back at the bed. There were two reading lamps, each angled toward a pillow. I pictured Trier under one of them, absorbed in the story of a ship that had gone down two thousand years ago, and looked forward to a place under the other.

The bathroom had pale gray tile and a glass shower, but the object beside the sink stopped me: a squat ceramic fish, blue-green and slightly crooked, with Trier’s toothbrush sticking out of its open mouth. One eye sat higher than the other. I picked it up carefully. Someone had scratched JOSH into the underside before firing it.

“Trier?” I called. “Your fish is eating a toothbrush.”

“That’s cheaper than buying it food.”