Until We Meet Again(74)

I catch the distinct glint of hardness in his eyes. This is a man

capable of murder.

“Ah, there he is!” Ned bellows. I can see his tense mood in the

beading sweat on his brow, in his cheerless, tight smile. I can

hear it in his overly loud voice. “Lonnie, my boy, we’ve been

waiting for you.”

I can barely mumble a weak apology as I take a seat at the

long table. My eyes are fixed on Ned. Why is he so on edge?

Does he know the truth about Cooper Enterprises?

“This is Jerome Smith,” Ned says, motioning to the mustached man. Then he motions back to me. “My nephew,

Lawrence. He’s the one I was telling you about. Has quite the

promising career ahead. He’ll be in a top firm in New York.

Very soon!”

“Once I finish college and law school,” I explain.

Jerome Smith clips a look to Ned, and he nods. “Of course!

Of course that’s right.”

I’ve never seen my uncle so nervous. He must know the kind

of danger he’s in.

I picture the whole scenario. A dinner-table confrontation.

Shouts. A gun is pulled. Aimed for Ned. I jump in the way. A

bullet pierces through my chest, lodging somewhere near my

heart.

But Cassandra’s article said I die on the beach tomorrow. So,

maybe I crawl out there with my dying strength, in hope of

saying goodbye.

Nausea sweeps over me like a cold wave. Such dark, terrible

thoughts. I look at Ned and Jerome Smith, and realize that the

conversation has gone on. I can see their mouths move, but the

only sound is this darn ringing in my ears.

I push my fingertips into my eyes. All this picturing of how I

die is enough to drive me completely mad.

A hand comes down on my arm, startling me to consciousness. It’s Jerome Smith. His brow is furrowed.

“I say, son. Are you quite all right?”

His hand is like a red-hot brand on my skin. I jump to my

feet. The dizziness nearly overtakes me.

“I’m not well.” I pull the words from somewhere in my rapidly constricting throat. And then I turn and run. I run until I reach my room and slam and lock the door. Breathing hard, I

press my back to it and slide to the floor.

I stay there for a solid hour. But even as I sit still and breathe,

my pulse doesn’t slow. Air still feels heavy and scarce in my

lungs. My hands tremble.

Each tick of the second hand circling the clock pricks me like

a pin. Each stab of pain makes me hate myself more and more.

I’m afraid. So afraid. But I can’t be a coward. Ned is in danger.

How can I abandon him like this?

My eyes press closed, and I think of Cassandra. I need her.

Her strength. Her intelligence. Her fire. I’d give anything in

the world to have her by my side at this moment.

But I’m on my own. I’ve known that from the first moment

she told me about the danger. Opening my eyes, I take a slow

breath. And I stand.

I let the pounding of my own heart fuel each step I take as

I leave my room and head down the stairs. The light from the

dining room glows on the polished marble floor of the entryway. The voices of Ned and the man from Cooper drift out into the shadowy silence.

Breathe. That’s all I have to do. Keep breathing.

Ned’s voice rises above the other. Sharp. There’s an edge to it.

An edge of alarm. Of fear. Desperation. For a brittle, stinging

moment, I’m paralyzed. And then I’m running into the dining

room.

The two men are still at the table, but Ned and Jerome Smith

are standing, leaning forward, their hands pressed to the shiny

mahogany surface. Ned’s broad face is flushed, his eyes wild.

They turn to me.

At first, I’m not sure what exactly to say. I want to order

Jerome Smith out of the house, but I’m not a complete fool.

“I need to speak with you, Ned,” I manage.

“This isn’t the time, Lon,” he says harshly.

“It’s very important.”

Smith scowls. “What’s the meaning of this?”

“What are you implying?” Ned counters.

My pulse throbs in my temples. But Jerome Smith isn’t reaching for a hidden gun. He just seems confused and irritated by my presence.

“I have to talk to you,” I say again to Ned. “You need to trust

me on this.”

“What could possibly be so important?” he asks, his face getting redder.

Smith pounds a fist on the table. “What kind of game are you

playing here, Foster?”

I turn to him, anger boiling over. “You’re the one playing

games, making out like you’re operating a respectable business

when really you’re a bunch of crooks.”

It’s as if the air has been sucked out of the room.

Ned’s face now turns white as the wall. Smith stares at me.

“I know what you’re trying to do to my uncle,” I go on,

emboldened. “The threatening letters. The late-night visits