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He clears his throat. “Let me get you Con’s number,” he says. “You got something to write with?”
Conner.
I feel my throat squeeze closed again. “Yes,” I tell him, fishing a pen and receipt from Bergdorf’s from the Chanel purse I tossed onto the chaise last night when I came in from my dinner date with Jeremy.
He rattles off a number with a Boston area code and a scribble it down. “I’ve got to go,” he says. “We’re gearing up for a thing.”
A thing.
I know that what that means. It means something dangerous.
“Okay,” I say. Too bright. Too cheerful.
“I’ll call Con and tell him to expect your call.” A pause while he waits for me to affirm what he just said. When I don’t, he sighs. “I’ll be okay, Hennie.”
“Promise?”
“Promise,” he says. “I love you, little sister.”
“I love you too.”
And then he’s gone.