Not in Time

by Shawna Seed

  Genevieve strained for the seatbelt button. “I can’t get out. Are you OK? You’re bleeding.”

  Julien pressed his left hand to his eyebrow and winced. “Yeah,” he said.

  His seatbelt gave easily. “Let me try yours.” He pushed on the release button and tugged on her belt, popping it loose.

  “Your eyes look a little unfocused. Don’t try to get out,” he said. “I’ll open your door for some air.”

  He leaned across Genevieve, his right hand braced on her seat, his body pressed against hers. He hit the door handle, Genevieve gave a shove with her foot, and the passenger door sprang open.

  “Look what I found,” Julien said, leaning down to retrieve something from the floor. He came up holding her phone. “You’ve got two bars.”

  First, Julien called 911. Next, he got Melvin’s number from his own phone and called him.

  Then they waited.

  It was peaceful, in a way. Julien found napkins in the console and pressed them to the cut on his head. He leaned back, his eyes closed.

  Genevieve’s head hurt. But other than that, she thought she was OK.

  “I saw what you did,” Genevieve said.

  Julien didn’t open his eyes. “What did I do?”

  “At the last minute,” Genevieve said. “You swerved.”

  Julien shrugged.

  Genevieve felt compelled to go on. “That night you lost me on the Metro, I was back in that attic, with... well, I’m pretty sure it was your uncle. He was leaving, and there was some kind of danger, and I thought ‘I have to warn him,’ and then he looked at me, and I realized, he already knew. He knew, and he was going anyway.”

  Julien opened his right eye – the left was beginning to swell – and looked at her.

  “I’m pretty sure that when he died, he knew it was coming, and he went anyway, because he believed in what he was doing, and because he was brave.”

  Julien closed his eye again.

  “I feel bad, because when you said you would do anything for me, I thought that was one of those bullshit things people say, like, ‘it’s not you, it’s me,’ or ‘we’ll always be friends.’ But now I know that you meant it, because you just... you swerved. And I know this happened because I wanted to drive up here, and now your car is wrecked, and I feel terrible about the times I’ve been mad at you, and the way I’ve messed everything up, and I’m so sorry I kissed you in Paris and made everything weird between us, and...”

  “Genevieve?”

  “Yes?”

  “Please stop talking.”

  Julien’s head was tilted back against the seat, a trail of blood marking the left side of his face and staining his shirt.

  “Oh. OK. Sorry.”

  “And don’t be sorry you kissed me in Paris,” Julien said.

  “No?”

  “No.” He opened one eye again. “Right before we hit the tree, the last thing I thought was, ‘damn, I wish I’d turned off my phone that night.’ ”

  In the distance, a siren wailed.

  The fire and rescue guys had to walk in because the SUV rollover was blocking the turnoff. They evaluated Genevieve and decided she could get out of the car. Julien pretzeled himself out the passenger door behind her.

  Julien and Genevieve assured everyone they were fine to walk out to the main road. Then Genevieve walked 10 feet and fainted.

  When she came to, she was lying in the sparse grass next to the gravel road, her head cradled in Julien’s lap. Someone had draped a blanket over her.

  She was game to try the walk again, but the professionals insisted she needed a gurney, which meant waiting for another ambulance. The first was already gone, whisking the SUV driver to the nearest spot where a helicopter could land.

  Genevieve could hear the whap-whap-whap of the chopper echoing down the canyon.

  While they waited, Julien got a bandage on his forehead and the worst of the blood cleaned off his face. The police had questions, and Julien squeezed her hand under the blanket to tell her he would do the talking. She closed her eyes and let him.

  The gurney ride was bumpy. When Genevieve complained, only half-joking, that they were making her carsick, one of the EMTs handed her a bag designed for that contingency.

  It was a good thing, too. When they wheeled past the crushed SUV, its tan upholstery sprayed red with blood, she threw up.

  Genevieve and Julien rode together in the ambulance. She was strapped to the gurney with an IV in one arm. He sat on a bench beside her, holding her other hand.

  At the hospital, though, they were quickly separated, despite Julien’s strenuous protests. A nurse helped her change into a gown, and then Genevieve was taken for a CT scan and an x-ray of her spine, two more gurney rides that made her sick.

  She was feeling very alone and pathetic when the curtains around her ER bed parted and Thomas poked his head in.

  Genevieve, her eyes brimming with tears, held out her hand to him, and Thomas grasped it.

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” she sputtered. “Did Julien call you?”

  Thomas squeezed into the small space and pulled the curtains closed behind him. “Carol came by my desk and said you two had been in a wreck and I should get over here. Are you OK? You have a really nasty bruise on your forehead.”

  “They’re doing neurological checks. Hitting your head twice in a month is a bad idea, apparently. My eyes were unfocused, and I passed out.”

  Thomas leaned close and looked carefully at her. “They seem OK now. Do you need anything?”

  “Can you find out what’s happening with Julien?”

  Thomas went off to do battle with the health-care bureaucracy and came back to report that Julien was getting a CT scan of his own.

  While they waited – for test results, or doctors to appear, or something to happen – Genevieve filled Thomas in, including her suspicions that Stimson Miller was buying up property around the Hilliard and that the driver who tried to run them off the road was a Hilliard guard.

  “What? Let me check with my sources.” Thomas pointed to the sign prohibiting cell phone use. “Be right back.”

  When Thomas returned, he was brimming with information.

  “Your wreck is the talk of the museum. Malcolm was forced to issue a memo,” he said.

  Thomas tapped on his smartphone screen and then intoned, in his Malcolm impersonation: “You may have heard that our former colleague Genevieve McKenna was involved in a car accident. She is being treated at the hospital. We’ll pass along further information when we have it.”

  Thomas gave her his best conspirator’s grin. “Now here’s where it gets interesting. Keisha says that Darren, the guard you thought you saw, didn’t come back from lunch. One of the other guards heard Darren was in an accident. And Keisha, being Keisha, buttonholed Malcolm and asked if it was true that Darren was the other driver.”

  “Go Keisha,” Genevieve said.

  “Indeed,” Thomas said. “Go Keisha. Keisha says Malcolm told her Darren may have been stalking you.” He frowned. “Did you two even work there at the same time?”

  Genevieve shook her head, although it hurt to do it.

  “Well, when Keisha tried to press Malcolm on it, he said he had to run because he had to take his son to his guitar lesson,” Thomas said.

  He paused for dramatic effect. “But get this. Keisha heard him tell someone else he was leaving early because he had to take his daughter to ballet.”

  Genevieve sat up in bed. That really made her head hurt. “Tabby.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Malcolm’s daughter. Tabitha – Tabby, right?”

  “Yes,” Thomas sniffed. “Awful name.”

  “And his son’s name is Sam.”

  Thomas looked over his shoulder, alarmed. “Should I find a nurse?”

  “No,” Genevieve said. “Find Julien. I know this sounds crazy, but you need to repeat this message, word for word. Tell him to call Melvin, and tell him Samby – S-a-m-b-y – is Malcolm Stewa
rt. His kids are Sam and Tabby.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Genevieve spent the night in the hospital for observation.

  Julien got four stitches and was cleared to go home, but he didn’t. He spent the night on an uncomfortable recliner in Genevieve’s room, sleeping as best he could with people waking her every two hours.

  Melvin called at 9 a.m. to say that Darren Lister, an ex-con who never would have passed a background check for a security guard job and didn’t know Tristan and Iseult from Homer and Marge Simpson, died in surgery. According to Melvin’s LAPD sources, he was a regular at the bar where Malcolm Stewart watched soccer.

  Thomas called at 9:15 to report, breathlessly, that an emergency board meeting was in session. Lawyers accompanied by armed (armed!) guards were carrying boxes out of Malcolm’s office. Rumors of embezzlement, sweetheart land deals and a scheme to land the Kaufman collection were sweeping the office.

  At 10 a.m., Henry knocked on the door, asking, “Everybody decent?”

  When Julien let him in, Henry handed him a bouquet of yellow roses. “Those are for her. Jeez, you look like hell.”

  “Thanks, Henry. Good morning to you, too.”

  Henry had a point. Julien had a shiner and needed a shave. And he was still wearing his bloodstained shirt, because by the time the hospital had moved Genevieve out of the ER and into a room, it was so late that he wouldn’t have been allowed back in if he’d left.

  Henry held a tray of coffees and had a shopping bag looped over his arm. He put the coffees down on the bedside table, pried one loose and handed it to Genevieve.

  “Latte,” he said. “Carol tells me that’s your drink.”

  “Who the hell is Carol?” Julien asked.

  Henry handed a coffee to Julien. “Black for you. I left bagels and danishes at the nurses station. Go grab something before it’s gone.”

  Genevieve sat up – very carefully, because her head was pounding – and took a sip. “Carol, as in Malcolm Stewart’s assistant Carol?”

  “Lovely woman,” Henry said. “Met her at temple. My inside source.” He winked at Genevieve. “We’ll all have to get together for dinner soon.”

  Then he turned to Julien. “Julien, the patient needs a cheese danish, I think.”

  Julien sighed and stalked out of the room. Like a teenager, Genevieve couldn’t help thinking.

  Henry pulled up a chair. “The bag here has clean clothes and toiletries. Carol packed up your room at the hotel last night.”

  “Thank you,” Genevieve said, practically swooning at the idea of her own clothes.

  “I owe you an apology. I didn’t know this would be dangerous,” Henry said. “I guess Malcolm Stewart had all his ducks in a row for a big score with the Kaufman deal, and he couldn’t allow any bad publicity over looted art to scuttle it. The working theory is this Darren Lister was roped in to keep up the harassing emails and keep an eye on you, but then he took his job a little too seriously.”

  “Kind of hard to believe that’s it,” Genevieve said. “I hoped we were on the trail of all the missing Lazare art.”

  “Hard to believe,” Henry echoed. He smoothed his tie.

  She looked at him over her coffee. “That De Momper in your library, you should have someone do an infrared examination. I think you’re going to find vestiges of markings on the back indicating it was looted and recovered.”

  Henry smiled. Because he’d been caught out? She couldn’t tell.

  “Are you pitching me on a search for the rest of our artwork?”

  Before she could answer, Julien came in bearing a danish for her and a bagel for himself.

  Henry patted her arm. “We’ll talk about this later.”

  The doctor released Genevieve that afternoon with a painkiller for her headache, a muscle relaxant for her stiff neck and the suggestion that she have someone keep a close eye on her for a few days.

  The doctor also gave her a referral for a neurologist, because something “unusual” had been spotted on her CT scan. No, not a tumor, the doctor hastened to add when she saw Genevieve’s alarmed expression. Just an “anomaly.”

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” the doctor said. She flipped through Genevieve’s chart. “But you didn’t indicate a history of neurological symptoms, so it’s probably nothing.”

  Julien raised an eyebrow, which Genevieve ignored.

  The thought of packing and transporting herself and Mona home seemed daunting, especially so close to rush hour. So when Julien insisted on taking her to his house, Genevieve acquiesced without a fight.

  Spending the night there seemed like the easiest thing all around. They were both exhausted, and his car was totaled. He could drive her Camry while she was at his house.

  Once she’d settled into the guest room, she made the obligatory calls to her father and D, assuring them both that she was fine.

  Henry had Greek food delivered, which Genevieve thought was sweet and Julien, for his own reasons, thought was irritating.

  By 8 p.m., Genevieve was asleep.

  On the second day, Genevieve rested while Julien went a few rounds on the phone with his insurance company. After Greek leftovers for lunch, Genevieve curled up at one end of the living room sofa and Julien sprawled at the other, and they whiled away the afternoon with a “Friday Night Lights” marathon. Julien had never seen the show, and Genevieve was feeling nostalgic for Texas.

  Julien rallied to make dinner, and Genevieve managed to stay up until 9 p.m. before retiring to the guest room.

  The third day was better. Julien felt good enough to go for a run. Genevieve woke up planning to pack up Mona and go home. But then Henry called. The Hilliard’s lawyers had asked for a meeting. Henry thought they wanted to talk settlement.

  “This afternoon?” Genevieve said when Julien told her about the call.

  “You have other plans?” Julien looked up from his computer, where he was researching cars.

  “I still have this hideous bruise on my forehead.”

  “You don’t look so bad today,” Julien said. “And I think my shiner gives me a rugged charm.” He gave her his most rakish grin.

  “This is brilliant strategy, actually,” he said. “Let them see what they did. I’d like to haul the wreckage of my car and that SUV over there, too.”

  Genevieve shuddered at the mention of the SUV.

  Julien frowned. “This is good, you know. Victory lap for you. Why are you dreading it?”

  Genevieve grabbed the excuse closest at hand. “I don’t know what to wear. You want to give me an opinion?”

  “In my opinion, you look good in everything.” He shut down the computer. “I’m going to grab a nap on the couch. Wake me at 1:45 so I can change my shirt and shave, OK?”

  Mona jumped down from the worktable and sashayed out to the living room after him.

  “Traitor,” Genevieve muttered to the cat.

  After pulling several outfits together and then rejecting them, Genevieve did what she always did in these situations. She called D.

  “Hey, Gen,” D boomed.

  “Are you in a good spot to talk?”

  “Stuck on the frickin’ Tollway,” D said. “If I’d known there was a wreck, I would have taken Central, where at least I’d be stuck for free. Why are you whispering?”

  Genevieve eased the door closed. “Julien’s taking a nap in the living room.”

  “I thought you were going home today,” D said. “Gen, if you’re not going to give him a taste of what he’s missing, well, you need to do a Number Two or get off the pot.”

  “Ew. D, that’s the most disgusting mixed metaphor ever.”

  “Well, excuse me for not majoring in English,” D said. “But why are you still there?”

  Genevieve pulled a black skirt from her suitcase and shook it out. It had been laundered since the wreck and appeared presentable.

  “I’m here because we have a meeting at the museum this afternoon. And that has me completely freaked out.” She
lowered her voice again. “I told Julien it’s because I don’t know what to wear, but that’s not really it. I don’t know why.”

  “Really? You don’t know why? You’re freaked out because once this is settled you have to go home,” D said. “No more Julien making you dinner then watching TV and going to sleep in the guest room.”

  “But...”

  “You guys are like one of those old married couples that doesn’t have sex anymore, except you skipped the part where you ever had sex. Which is the fun part! Why would you want to skip the fun part?”

  Genevieve tried to break in. “Well, I don’t think that’s exactly...”

  But D was on a roll. “Look, I know you think he’s your soulmate or whatever. But if he doesn’t want you, Gen, then, by definition, he’s not the perfect guy for you.”

  “I don’t think it’s fair to say he doesn’t want...”

  “Oh, right, he wants you, but he’s not going to do anything about it, because why again? His ex-wife was mean to him?”

  “It’s more complicated than that,” Genevieve said.

  “He’s either in or he’s out, Gen,” D said. “Reasons don’t matter. He says he’s out. You seem to think that’s the final word. So you need to do this meeting, and then you need to get your butt on home. Hanging around him is just going to break your heart.”

  Genevieve sat on the sofa. “Not being around him is going to break my heart,” she said softly.

  “All the time you spend with him is time you’re not spending meeting somebody who could be the guy,” D said.

  Genevieve took a deep breath. It was hard to imagine that such a person, other than Julien, existed.

  “And if you truly care about him, and want the best for him, then you want him out there trying to meet the person he can be happy with.”

  “Oh.” Tears welled in her eyes, and Genevieve blinked them back.

  “Yeah, I know,” D said. “That is a First-Class, All-Expenses-Paid Guilt Trip right there. But it’s true.”

  “D, you don’t get enough credit for how smart you are, you know that?”