Chapter 117 Barry's Office

Chapter 117 Barry's Office
POV: BRIGAIL
Latoya Reynolds had given her the advice three years ago on a Tuesday night at the bar when Brigail was still wiping tables.
"The only person more dangerous than a man with a roofie," Lala said, pointing at Maudette who was leaning against Jerry's shoulder, cocktail in hand, "is a girl pretending to be wasted. Nobody watches what a drunk girl does. They just blame it on the booze."
The blue drink he had slid across the bar to Brigail was completely virgin.
She had remembered that advice every single day for the past week.
In Barry's bathroom, she straightened up from her knees and rinsed her mouth at the sink. The lobster bisque she had used to fill the two slim shampoo containers had made a convincing mess on the marble tiles. She rinsed the containers clean and dropped them in the bin.
She stepped into the tub and turned on the water.
She had been sober since she arrived at the Mandalay.
The nine empty minibar bottles had been poured down the sink one by one as she restocked them each morning when room service brought fresh towels. She requested Grey Goose specifically because it smelled the strongest on the breath when you dabbed it on your collar. The coaster trick was older than Vegas.
She dried her hair, tightened her robe, and went to the door.
Barry was back.
"Pam's at the hospital," he said. "Demanding to see the body. Nora probably tipped her."
Brigail blinked. "That bitch," she said with real feeling, because in this case she meant it for an entirely different reason than Barry assumed.
She dressed quickly and slammed the door in his face.
St. Mary's smelled of disinfectant and recycled air and the particular institutional quiet of somewhere that had decided death was just another administrative process.
She walked the corridor beside Barry with a slight sway in her step that required no effort to maintain at this point because she was genuinely exhausted.
Pam was at the nurses' station, white blazer and red pumps, tear-streaked in a way that was absolutely convincing. When she spotted them she covered the distance in six seconds flat.
"How could you." She stopped a foot away from Brigail, her voice low and shaking. "She helped you. Over and over again. She helped you."
"Pam," Brigail said, reaching toward her.
"Don't." Pam stepped back. "You are dead to me. To all of us." Her eyes cut to Barry. "You two deserve each other." She turned and walked to the automatic glass doors without looking back.
Brigail buried her face against Barry's shoulder and sobbed.
He patted her back.
"Russell already made the call," he murmured. "Thalia's remains will be cremated immediately. Nothing to trace back to you."
She lifted her head and wiped her cheeks with a tissue. Black mascara on the white paper.
"Can I?" She gestured vaguely toward the far end of the corridor where the restrooms were.
A man in dark blue scrubs with a scrub cap and a surgical mask passed beside them, clipboard in hand. He pointed down the hall without being asked, a toothpick between his fingers. Third door, make a left.
She thanked him. He pushed through the double doors marked MORGUE.
"I'll get Thalia's personal effects," Barry said. "Meet you out front."
Brigail walked to the restroom.
She locked the door behind her. Turned on the tap. Pressed both palms to the edge of the sink and let her eyes close for three full seconds.
Then the middle stall opened.
She looked at the mirror.
Blue eyes. Scrub cap. Surgical mask pulled down below his chin.
He was leaning against the cubicle door watching her with the expression she had not seen in too long.
He let the smirk out slowly.
"Well played, Havens."
She mirrored it. "Touche, Michealson."
He crossed the bathroom in two strides and lifted her onto the counter. His hands went to her face, her neck, her hair. His forehead pressed hard against hers.
"I missed you," he said, rough and low. "And I'm going to break every one of Barry's fingers for touching you."
"Eli." She grabbed his lapels. "We don't have time."
"Let that bastard wait." He kissed the corner of her mouth, her cheek, the side of her jaw.
"Could you please not," said a soft accented voice from the last stall.
Eli groaned.
The stall door swung open.
Thalia Romero stepped out, hair disheveled, a large coffee stain on her white blouse, alive and deeply unimpressed.
Brigail laughed. The real kind. The kind she had not managed in weeks.
"Best supporting role," Thalia said, with a small curtsy. "I was playing dead in a hospital bathroom for forty-five minutes. I deserve an award."
"Pam's giving you a run for it," Brigail said, reaching into her sling bag. She produced two glass vials and held them up. "Anyone order liquid B?"
Thalia plucked them from her fingers. "I'll have the DEA process these as evidence the minute I'm out of town." She tucked them into her scrub pocket and looked at Eli. "Can I go now or do you need the bathroom for another ten minutes?"
"Go," Eli said.
Thalia slipped out without looking back.
Brigail turned back to Eli.
He was watching her with that look. The one that had nothing calculated in it.
"How much did Barry buy it?" he asked.
"Every bit," she said. "He didn't even check the cups. He was too busy watching my betting pattern." She shook her head. "He underestimated what a wasted girl can do."
Eli slid his hands into her hair. "Latoya?"
"Latoya," she confirmed.
He smiled. The real one, slow from the corner. "When this is over," he said, "I am buying that man the most expensive sequined jacket in Las Vegas."
She pulled him down by the back of his neck.
"Later," she said. "We have approximately four minutes before Barry comes looking."
He did not argue.
For the first time in weeks, neither of them were pretending to be anything other than exactly what they were.