Lynell frowns, glancing around the room. She feels the absence of Daniel like the loss of a limb. She climbs under the covers of the free bed and lies on her side, staring at Price.

He pulls a book out of his bag and scoots back, lying with one hand stretched behind his head and the other holding his book in front of his face.

“You’re staring again,” Price says, looking over at Lynell.

She huffs and moves to her back. “Excuse me if I want to get a good look at the person who is going to kill me tomorrow.”

“Don’t be so self-righteous. You were also going to Register someone yesterday,” Price says, lowering his open book to his chest.

“Yeah, well . . . I never got the chance.” She doesn’t bother asking how he knew that. It wouldn’t surprise her if he saw her at the office and let her run for the fun of it. Like playing with your food.

“You can’t judge me for doing something you were planning to do yourself.”

“Not judging,” Lynell says, turning her head. She meets Price’s eyes and suddenly feels like she may have met him before after all. “But I know why I was going to Register Alan. I had a good reason. Why did you Register me?”

“You think you’re above reproach?”

“Maybe not, but I want to know why you’d want to Register me.”

“Are you ever going to stop talking?” Price sighs.

“I imagine sometime tomorrow I will.”

“Ever the sense of humor, you have. Just like your—” Price stops talking and clears his throat.

Lynell sits up, ready to ask him what he was going to say, but one look from him arrests all words in her throat.

“You can have whatever you want to eat tonight,” he says, rolling over to pull a menu out of the drawer in the nightstand between the two beds. He throws the thick black envelope to her and returns to his spot on the bed. “We’ll order in an hour.”

“My last meal . . .” she mutters under her breath, flipping open the menu.

“Hardly. I’m sure there will be time for meals tomorrow. Now shut up so I can finish reading this chapter.” He returns to the book but pauses again when his watch flashes three times, bright white and blinding. Lynell frowns when he groans and takes it off, dumping it in the drawer between them.

Fighting the urge to ask him about it, she says, “Not a talker, are you?” She pulls off her shoes, scanning the dinner items. “Conversation is good, you know. Healthy for the soul.”

He doesn’t respond, so Lynell rolls her eyes and focuses on the menu. But she continues to occasionally glance at Price. When it’s finally time to order, she relays what she wants, “Roasted Free Range Chicken with fries,” and devours the food when it arrives an hour later. She licks ketchup off her fingers and catches Price looking at her with a small frown.