Page 109 of The Black Table
There are no paper towels—just one of those stupidly unhygienic Airblade things—so I pat my face dry with the edge of my sweater sleeve—dry clean only be damned—and bundle up my coat from where I’d shucked it onto the ground. With a deepbreath, I grab the handle and push my way back out into the world.
“Thereyou are!”
It’s Morgan, rushing towards me from the end of the line. “I was about to put out an APB when I didn’t see you.” She frowns, looking me up and down, and grabs my upper arm. “Are you okay?”
“I’m…yeah,” I say. “Now, anyway.” I press a hand to my forehead. “Long story. Or, not really, just…”
I think of the guy—Alexei—and look around for him. Nothing—he’s gone. But a single cup of black coffee sits waiting on the sideboard.
“I guess that’s mine,” I mutter, and gently shrug out of Morgan’s grasp.
She pouts. “You ordered already?”
“Sort of,” I say, threading my way to grab the cup and ducking back to her side. “I, uh, was in line, and this guy starts talking to me—Russian, or something?—and buys me a drink.”
Morgan’s eyes go wide. “Russian?”
The coffee’s way too hot to drink, so I blow on it, nodding. “I mean, I didn’t see a passport. I’m just stereotyping based on accent.”
“What did he look like?”
“Um, tallish? Dark hair, dark eyes, little cross necklace?” I lower my cup slightly. “Why?”
Morgan snatches the coffee out of my hand so fast she nearly spills it over herself. “Don’t drink that!”
I gape at her. “What?”
“You…you can’t just drink random unattended beverages from strange guys,” she says, darting a glance from the still-sloshing coffee to my face. “Come on, Gwenna. Have some street smarts. Especially after what happened at the formal hall.”
She does have a point, I realize. Still, her reaction seems…off.
“Speaking of which,” Morgan says. “I need to make one more stop, so?—”
I shrug. “That’s fine. I’m down for whatever.”
Morgan winces. “Yeah, it’s…a little ways out of town, is the thing.But, good news is, I got you a ride back to campus.”
With that, she turns to the door and waves to someone:
Callahan.
TWENTY-NINE
CALLAHAN
I’mgrateful to even have a car. And usually, I can ignore the fact that it’s a piece of junk.
But now, with her walking beside me, looking at the battered 1990s station wagon between the sleek SUVs and hybrids, it’s all I can think about.
“This is me,” I say, indicating. Not meeting her eye.
Gwenna nods. “Volvo,” she remarks. “Very safe.”
I tense my jaw a little as I push the key into the driver’s side lock and twist. Say nothing.
“What?”
Her voice startles me. I glance at her.
