“We should go to the hospital,” I say urgently. We gather our stuff, forgetting about our brainstorming session. It’s more important we reach the Jensons and Paris before anyone else does. As we’re rushing down the front steps, Inspector Robinson is walking up them. She is wearing a taupe pantsuit that flatters her figure nicely.
“The Three Musketeers,” Inspector Robinson says, an edge to her voice. “Just the trio I want to see. Let’s go back up to your apartment, shall we?” Despite being couched in question form, it is an order, and we all know it. We shuffle upstairs without saying anything.
“Can I get you anything, Inspector?” My mother asks as we enter the apartment. Before Inspector Robinson can answer, my mom is up and in the kitchen. Lyle and I look at the inspector, but she remains silent. I realize that she is waiting for my mother to return, so I don’t start a conversation. She will tell us what she wants to know, when she wants to tell us, and no amount of coercion will persuade her to do differently. The silence is taut, but not uncomfortable. Although the inspector is radiating anger, I don’t think it’s directed towards us. Of course, I could be mistaken, in which case, we are in for a long night. I look at Lyle who is staring at nothing in particular. I look at Inspector Robinson who is perusing her notes. I open my mouth to say something, then shut it quickly. Now is not the time for me to be nosy or smart-assed or to use any of the half-dozen of my usual responses. There is one question I need to ask the inspector, however, and I voice it.
“Inspector Robinson?” I make sure my voice isn’t tentative because I don’t want to sound like a beta dog rolling over to have my stomach scratched. The inspector looks up at me and waits for me to continue. “Do you think Paris is still in danger?”
“I do,” Inspector Robinson says immediately. “Him, you, your mother, Mr. Kingston. Possibly Ms. Meadows’ other children. Less likely her husband or the Jensons.”
“What a day,” Lyle mutters, the first to break the silence.
“All right, that’s enough!” My mother says loudly. Everyone but me is so shocked, they immediately stop what they are doing and practically snap to attention. “You are all acting like children. Is this the image you want to present to Paris?” The nurses continue on their way; the cop sits back down; Lyle slowly deflates; Mrs. Jenson’s shoulders sag; Mr. Jenson continues posturing. “I have tried to be diplomatic, but I have failed. Catherine, Douglas, you have the right to do what you want, of course, but I think it’s a crying shame that you want to banish one of the few people who loves Paris for who he is. Why don’t you ask Paris what he wants or don’t you care?” From within the room, we all hear a distinct if faint, “Want Lyle.” Mrs. Jenson has the grace to blush while Mr. Jenson continues to scowl.
“Let’s go talk,” Lyle says, grabbing me by the arm. With a wave at the others, he steers me to the cafeteria.
Wednesday. Four days after Paris was almost killed. It seems much longer, and yet, it seems like it just happened. Time is the first thing to go in a period of crisis because it’s simply no longer important. If someone you love is hovering between life and death, what does an hour or a day really mean? With this mentality, I make it through the day at work. I keep my nose to myself and don’t mind so much the snubs that are pointedly aimed at me; most of them sail right over my head. I receive an email from Libby accusing me again of trying to sabotage her wedding, and I barely flinch as I delete it. This feeling of detachment is marvelous, and I wish I could cultivate it permanently. I idly consider meditation or becoming a Buddhist, but it seems like too much effort. I decide that it’s much easier to be in denial than to reach nirvana, and it feels pretty much the same. I remember that I half-promised my mom I would talk to Libby about her ‘if there is a wedding’ statement, but I don’t have the energy. When this case is over and Paris is better, then I’ll talk to her.
“If I am not knowing better, I would think you were avoiding me.” Vashti’s husky voice causes the anger inside of me to melt into something much nicer. I am practically deliquescing on the street.
“I see,” she says at last, picking up her fork again. “Perhaps you have a problem with me yourself?” She doesn’t look at Lyle, but concentrates on her food.