“I’ll fucking kill you,” Ian screamed defiantly. “Stop or I’ll fucking kill you!”

“Kill me?” Fire replied. “Kill me? Ian, all you think about is killing yourself. You have a sketch pad filled from cover to cover with drawings of yourself committing suicide—hanging from trees, slashing your wrist, falling in front of trains, drinking poison, shooting yourself in the head. You think I’m an ass, Ian? In every single drawing Margaret is watching you and crying. Don’t flatter yourself, Ian. If you should die no one would care … not Margaret, not me, not Claire, not your mother. Do you hear? Nobody. In fact we’ll be happier when you go, because all you do is bring us grief!”

chapter thirteen

Sylvia dispatched Monday’s task before noon. As rehearsed with Diego, she was away from her office when the call came and pretended to be alarmed when Boogie Boo paged her and gave her the news that her mother was ill. Exclaiming soft “Oh Gods,” she closed her door, implying that she was returning the call. Then she emerged with a solemn face.

By the early afternoon, events were developing as engineered. Boogie had spread the news in the break room and at the water fountain, and by the afternoon editorial meeting Sylvia was the object of oblique support—an extra hello here and how-you-doing there.

Virgil asked to speak to her after the meeting, and, following a little small talk, inquired about her state of mind. She said there was nothing wrong, displaying just enough contrary body language to suggest that she couldn’t talk without breaking down.

Virgil began to pry with less subtlety and Sylvia stood her ground, evading his interrogative charges with the arrogance of a matador—courting danger, then eluding it with grace.

She had to be careful though. It was important to not tell an outright lie. A fuzzy lie was more difficult to uncover than a clear one and it was usually considered a lesser infraction. It was also important to seem resilient. She knew that Virgil admired feminine strength and that her time off might actually come as a reward for valor, so she deceived him, radiating grief that made him soften his approach.

“Are you sure you will be okay, sister?” Virgil asked, getting up from behind his desk and sitting on the arm of Sylvia’s chair.

“Yes,” Sylvia said with a sigh. “I’ll be fine.”

Virgil put his arm around her paternally and drew her near. “If there’s anything we can do for you, Sylvia, just tell us. Don’t hesitate … we are family here.”

We, she thought. I didn’t know you considered yourself part of any family except the Holy Trinity.

It was slow in coming, but finally it came. The rest of the week off. Three for vacation. Two to be counted as comp time.

“Listen, girl,” Virgil said just as she was getting up to leave, “I know how you feel. Sometimes I don’t like sharing my problems with others either … but listen, if you ever need to talk, you’ve got a friend here … Virgil Pucci. It hasn’t always been easy between us, Sylvia, and I know you feel that I pick on you at times. But of all the sisters at Umbra, I think you’re the most capable. That’s why I work you so hard. If you ever want to talk, Sylvia, call me, come see me, my door is always open. Here … take my home number. And don’t discuss your time off with anyone. I don’t want them to think I’m playing favorites. Okay?”