More footsteps. I don’t bother to look up
until Conlan says, “I hear you tried to kill Tobin.”
“Is that what he’s saying?” I ask.
Conlan carries another tray, slides it through the slot in the
door, more soup. No knife this time, I notice, but I still have the
other one in my hand. I feel like a petulant child when I tell him,
“He started it.”
Conlan only nods. “I know.”
He busies himself with cleaning up the
spilled trays that litter the floor and doesn’t look at me.
Carefully, I ask, “How’s that girl doing?”
He lifts the pancakes by their soggy edges
and flops them onto the tray, picking each one up with two fingers,
grimacing as he holds it away from him and syrup drips to the
floor. “Not good,” he says. He doesn’t elaborate.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. Conlan nods,
yes, he
