23
ANSON
Back down the steps in the main hallway, Stash asked, “What happened to him?”
As I quickly told him, Paul filled in the few parts I missed, his voice broken, clearly still thinking about the Kid. Vincent paced the hall like a bull in a cage. All hot breath and flared nostrils.
When we finished, Stash let out a long sigh. “Well, he’s here now. He’s safe and in good hands.” He smiled at the woman beside him. “Meagan here graduated at the top of her class from Cornell and is on staff at MUSC; she’s also my ex-wife. There is nobody in the Quick I trust more.”
Paul’s face flushed with confusion. “You’re a real doctor? Aren’t you . . . ?”
“Homeless?” she quickly replied before rubbing Stash’s shoulder. “Not anymore, thanks to this man.”
“Your ex-husband,” I said flatly, as confused as Paul.
“It’s a long story,” she replied.
“A long story for another day,” Twill said, eyeing Stash. “We need to talk about Emily.”
Stash’s face went slack. “Ruddy already told me. I’m so sorry. I know she was a friend. She seemed like a good kid.”
Emily.
The girl in the morgue.
So much had happened, I’d nearly forgotten.
“You knew how she died,” I said to Twill. “You knew about the hole in the back of her head.”
Stash and Twill locked eyes for a moment; a million silent words seemed to pass between them. “We’ll talk tomorrow, I promise. There’s something else I need to attend to right now.” He nodded at the rest of us. “Welcome to the Quick, gentlemen.”
When he was gone, I asked her again. “How did you know?”
Something flashed behind her eyes—anger? Frustration? I couldn’t tell. She only looked at me for the longest time. Finally, she said, “I’ll show you,” and started down the hall in the opposite of the direction Stash had gone.