Evil at Heart Read Online Free PDF Page A

sperm?”
               
                There was a pause. “Uh, no,” Derek said.
               
                The elevator dinged and the silver doors slid open. “I’ve got to go,” Susan said. She popped an Altoid in her mouth and dropped the tin back in her purse. “I’m here.”
               
                C H A P T E R 6
               
                They wouldn’t let Susan in. They never did. Her name wasn’t on Archie’s list of approved visitors. But Susan buzzed and sent the nurse back to ask if Archie would see her, and when the nurse came back, like always, and said no, not today, but he says hi, Susan took a chair in the psych-ward waiting room. If she came often enough, and sat long enough, eventually, she hoped, Archie would relent.
               
                And if he didn’t, well, it was a nice quiet place to get some work done.
               
                There were two chairs, both pee-colored molded plastic, and Susan always sat in the left one. “Waiting room” was generous. It was more like a waiting closet. No windows. Just five feet square, filled by two chairs and a card table stacked with mental-health brochures. Susan was halfway through her coffee and had taken a break from her laptop to read a leaflet about adult hyperactive attention deficit disorder when the elevator doors opened and out stepped Henry Sobol.
               
                He lifted his eyebrows when he saw her. “Purple, huh?” he said.
               
                “It’s called ‘Plum Passion,’ ” Susan said, touching her violet hair. It had been turquoise. Before that, pink. Susan threw a glance at the psych-ward door. If Henry was here to talk to Archie, maybe the thing at the Gorge did have something to do with Gretchen. “Are you here because of the rest stop?” she asked.
               
                “Just visiting a friend,” Henry said.
               
                Henry didn’t visit in the mornings. At least he’d never come while she was there.
               
                “You can trust me,” Susan said. She knew that Henry didn’t believe her. And maybe it wasn’t even true. But Susan wanted it to be.
               
                Henry started to reach for the call button, but then hesitated and turned back to her. “You know what a journalist is?” he asked.
               
                “What?” Susan asked.
               
                Henry’s expression didn’t flicker. “A dead reporter.”
               
                “Ouch,” Susan said.
               
                “I stole it,” Henry said.
               
                Susan leaned forward. “You hear the one about the woman who got pulled over for speeding?” she asked. She never remembered jokes. But she’d heard her mother tell this one so many times it had stuck.
               
                “Don’t tell it if it’s not dirty,” Henry said.
               
                Susan brushed a lock of purple hair out of her eyes. “The cop asks why she’s in such a hurry,” she said, “and the woman explains that she’s late for work. ‘I suppose you’re a doctor,’ the cop says, ‘and someone’s life hangs in the balance.’ ‘No,’ the woman says, ‘I’m an asshole stretcher.’ ” Susan giggled. Henry’s face clouded. It occurred to Susan at this moment that maybe Henry wouldn’t like this joke, but there was no turning back, so she went on. “ ‘An asshole stretcher,’ the cop says. ‘What’s that?’ ‘It’s where you start with one finger,’ the woman says.” Susan lifted one of her fingers and wiggled it for effect.