“Hello, darling, it’s so good to finally hear your voice. It’s been such a long, long time.”
That voice. That cultured British Cambridge-accented voice. So clear. So goddamn clear.
It couldn’t be him. It simply couldn’t. He’s dead. Dead! James Watson is dead! But, but, the voice …
The cellphone slipped out of Debra’s numbed fingers and rattled onto the floor beside her wheelchair. Color drained from her complexion. Sitting in the wheelchair, staring out the open French doors at the wide river flowing slowly past Turner’s new/old digs, she found herself unable to breathe. Unable to talk. Unable to comprehend.
Behind her she heard Mrs. Mercer, the personal assistant and trained nurse practitioner Turner found to be with her while she recuperated here in his house, washing dishes in the k
