Page 68 of Speak of the Devil (New Hope 3)

“The detective showed us the tape, darling,” my mother says quietly. “You were not injured when you left that garage. It’s very clear. It shows you walking Mrs. Louis to her car and then entering your own.”

“It shows wrong.”

“So you have no way of explaining what might have happened? How your injuries occurred?”

“No.”

My father crosses the room, and suddenly we’re eye to eye. “Are you on drugs, Elliot?”

“What do you think?”

“I think you need help.”

“What I need isn’t up to you.”

Nathan clears his throat. “I didn’t want to bring this up, Elliot. Forgive me. But there’s the issue with the prostitute to consider...”

“Prostitute,” my mother gasps. “What prostitute?”

“They’re suggesting they have photos of a call girl leaving your apartment,” Nathan says.

“Is that true?” my father asks.

“Of course, it’s not true,” my mother says.

Nathan knows it’s true, so I say, “So what?”

“Well that’s not all,” my attorney continues. “I’ve been sent photos of a call girl…she’s in a precarious position, and there are bruises…they’re threatening to send them to the press unless we meet their demands.”

My father pinches the bridge of his nose. “Dear God.”

“What demands?”

“It’s not exactly clear yet.”

“Quite frankly, Elliot,” Nathan says. “We need this to happen.”

“Whose attorney are you?” I shake my head. “Whose side are you on?”

“He’s a friend of the family, darling. He’s your friend.”

“I thought you said I don’t have any friends.”

The doorbell rings.

Please let it be Emily. She’ll sort all of this out. She was always good at that.

“That must be the doctor,” my mother says.

My eyelids are heavy, and my skin feels clammy and cool to the touch. I’m sweating, and the further my body drifts from sleep, the warmer I feel. I try to sit up but can’t, probably on account of a blanket over the top of me that feels like lead. This and I’m just too tired.

“Do you know where you are, Mr. Parker?” a deep voice asks.

I can’t open my eyes. I can’t summon the energy. Maybe I don’t even care.

Someone pats my shoulder. “You’re probably feeling a bit tired. This is good news. You’ve come to rest, and we’re here to help with that.”

I flex my fingers and then my toes. I can’t tell whether I’m actually moving them, or if I’m just imagining myself doing it.