Ben brings the news

[Note: This takes place about ¾ of the way through the story. Kielle and Ben have broken up messily. Kielle is recuperating from that and her brush with death at her friend Lisa's house in Taos, NM.]

By 7:00, the day had cooled enough to make the patio inviting. I lay propped at a 45-degree angle on a chaise, not exactly comfortable, but less uncomfortable than I'd been in a while. I savored the pleasures of the evening: a new Jonathan Kellerman novel in my left hand and a cool glass of sangria in my right. A few feet away, Lisa browsed through accumulated professional journals and sipped from her own glass in time to the mariachi music on the radio. I was beginning to think life and I just might be on speaking terms again.

Neither of us noticed the doorbell at first, but its persistent chiming finally stood out from the music. Lisa put down her Journal of Victorian Culture with a sigh and rose to go answer the door.

Immersed in my book, I didn't notice she'd stepped back onto the patio until she said my name. Her posture alone would have told me something amiss even if the hesitation in her voice had not.

"Who's at the door?" I asked warily, stomach tightening.

"Um, it's Ben. Your Ben," she said diffidently.

"Why that punk-ass motherf — " I began, rocketing from serene to pissed off in less than a second.

Lisa held up a hand to forestall my protest. "Hold on. Hold on. I think you want to hear this."

"What could that asshat pendejo possibly have to say that I would want to hear?" I snarled.

"He swears to God he's not here on his own behalf. He says it's about Quill Kelly, and it's serious."

A new fear squeezed my stomach. "Quill? What happened? Is he okay?"

"Ben didn't go into it with me. Said he'd rather tell you directly. But he also said he'd give me the story to relay if you won't see him." She glanced over her shoulder toward the inside of the house, where Ben was apparently still waiting.

Nice tactic, Shea, I thought. Jolt me with allegedly shocking news, then prove your humility by offering to speak through an intermediary. Don't shoot the messenger, is that it?

"Is he twanging your bullshit radar?" Lisa had a nearly infallible nose for falsehood; she'd pegged my ex-husband for a liar the moment they met and was notorious among her students for being unsnowable. If she said Ben was full of it, he most likely was. But she hadn't sent him packing, which made me think she believed him. And that worried me even more, because it meant Quill really was in trouble.

Lisa shook her shaggy auburn curls. "I think he's being straight. He has news he believes you'll want to hear, whether it comes from him or not."

I was setting my book and glass aside before she finished. "Help me up."

Practiced at it by now, she levered me out of the chair with a hand under my elbow. It was getting easier. I hardly held my breath at all.

"He's on the front porch. And he looks like hell, if that helps," she added. "He looks beat to shit, and I don't think he's slept in a while."

I mulled that over during my few strides to the door. Had Ben and Quill been in an accident? Wrecked their motorcycles or something?

Ben turned to face me as I opened the door. I hadn't seen him in about two months, and Lisa was right, the interval had not been kind to him. His hair was buzzed almost to the scalp. Healing scuffmarks reddened one brow, one cheekbone and most of his knuckles, and I suspected his clothes hid more mat burn.

The T-shirt and jeans hung baggy on his frame. He'd lost at least 10 pounds where he'd had none to spare, which combined with the brutal haircut to make his angular face look gaunt. His eyes were bloodshot and shadowed. He needed a shave. When the breeze shifted, I could smell that he was a few days off a serious bender, and he'd taken up smoking again. Not exactly an endearing image to present if he was hoping to win back my regard.

He weathered my scrutiny stoically, but the hands jammed into his pockets were clenched.

"Kielle," he said politely.

I didn't waste time on small talk. "Lisa said something about Quill. Is he okay?"

"Yes and no," Ben replied slowly. "Physically, he's fine. But he's in a terrible depression. He hasn't said a word since Nancy died."

My mind stumbled to catch up. "Wait, what? Nancy died? Nancy Wainwright? When? How?"

"You didn't know?" Green eyes widened in surprise. "Honestly, you didn't?"

"No. What happened?"

Ben slumped as some of his tension drained away. "Oh," he breathed, scrubbing his hands over his face. "Oh. You didn't know. That explains so much."

"Explains what? What the hell happened?" I demanded.

"Nancy died two days after Bill fired you. They told me about that. She — it was suicide. Pills."

"Whoa. . . . Shit," was all I could come up with. There were plenty of times I'd wished the calculating little bitch dead, but not really. Not like that. Then a worse thought occurred to me. "Please tell me Quill wasn't the one who found her."

He sighed. "I'm afraid so."

"Ah, shit. Shit!" I said again. "I can't even imagine how awful . . . you said he won't talk about it?"

"He won't talk, period. He gave a very brief report to the police and then clammed up for good. He hasn't spoken a word since that day. Quill's voice . . . it's gone."

Gone. Silenced. For a few moments, I stood mute myself. For Quill Kelly, whose life was song, to be struck dumb was like a painter losing his hands. The thing that made him himself had died, or at least fallen unconscious with shock. I could think of no worse affliction for his psyche.

"Come inside," I said. "Tell me everything."