Make Me

McCann’s sister moved on, group to group, taking a glass from a passing tray, putting her hand on other people’s arms, putting the glass back on another tray. Then she caught sight of Reacher and Chang standing alone and awkward near the gate, underdressed in terms of quality, overdressed in terms of quantity, unknown and unexplained, and she changed course and headed toward them, still smiling, eyes still bright, a happy hostess’s welcome all over her face.

Chang whispered, “We can’t tell her. Not now.”

The woman came close and extended a slim and manicured hand. She said, “Have we met? I’m Lydia Lair.”

She looked like her Google picture at the charity ball. Like a million dollars. Chang shook her hand and gave her name, and then Reacher did, and the woman said, “I’ll ask you the same question I’ve been asking all afternoon, which is, do you know our daughter from school or from work? Not that it makes the slightest bit of difference, of course. It’s all one big party. But it’s something to say.”

Reacher said, “Ma’am, we’re here for something else entirely. Perhaps we should come back later. We wouldn’t want to crash a wedding. Might bring seven years of bad luck.”

The woman smiled.

“I think that’s mirrors,” she said. “And this isn’t the wedding. Far from it. Not yet. This is a kind of pre-pre-pre-wedding breakfast bride’s-side-only party sort of thing. So people can start to get to know each other ahead of the rest of the week’s events, so everyone gets energized for the big deal at the weekend. My daughter says everyone does it now. But you know how it is these days. The weddings last longer than the marriages.”

And then she laughed, a happy sound, as if certain her joke didn’t apply to her, as if certain her daughter’s marriage would last forever.

Chang asked, “Would this evening be more convenient?”

“May I know what it’s about?”

“Your brother Peter.”

“Oh dear, I’m so sorry, but I think you might have wasted a trip. He isn’t here. He didn’t come. We expected him, obviously, but it’s a long flight. How do you know Peter?”

“We should get into that later this evening. If that’s convenient. Because right now we’re holding you up. And we’ve taken far too much of your time already. We should let you get back to your guests.”

McCann’s sister smiled appreciatively, and started to turn away. But a new thought struck her, and she turned back, different. She said, “Is Peter in trouble? Are you police officers?”

Chang did the only thing she could, as a woman with a code, which was to ignore both questions completely, and respond with a statement that resembled an answer. She said, “We’re private investigators.”

“Did Keever send you?”

“Ma’am, now we really need to talk. But we can’t pull you away from all of this.”

“Is Peter in trouble?”

Chang did the same thing again. She said, “Ma’am, we’re here to be briefed. Our job is to hear about Peter from you.”

McCann’s sister said, “Come with me.”

They walked through the house to a dark-paneled study, shuttered tight against the sun, with club chairs and a river stone fireplace. They sat down, the women perched almost knee to knee, Reacher leaning back. McCann’s sister asked, “Where should I begin?”

Reacher said, “Tell us what you know about Keever.”

“I never met him, obviously. But Peter likes to talk things through, so during the selection process I felt I got to know all the candidates to some extent.”

“How many candidates were there?”

“Eight to start with.”

“Did the process take long?”

“Almost six weeks.”

“That’s thorough.”

“That’s Peter.”

“How often do you talk?”

“Most days.”

“How long are the calls?”

“Some days an hour.”

“That’s a lot.”

“He’s my brother. He’s lonely.”

“Why did he need a private detective?”

“Because of Michael, his son. My nephew.”

“People say there are issues.”

“That’s the wrong word. That’s a polite way of saying difficult. Which is already a polite way of saying something worse. Michael is the opposite of difficult.”

“What would be the right word?”

“Michael didn’t make it all the way to the end of the assembly line. A couple of things didn’t get bolted on. I try not to blame the mother. But she wasn’t well. She died less than ten years later.”

“Which things got missed?”

“Are you a happy man, Mr. Reacher?”

“Can’t complain. Generally speaking. Right now I feel pretty good. Not in relation to the current part of our conversation, you understand.”

“On a scale of one to ten, what’s the worst you’ve ever felt?”

“About a four.”

“And the happiest?”

“Compared to the theoretical best ever?”

“I suppose.”

“About a nine.”

“OK, four at the bottom and nine at the top. What about you, Ms. Chang?”

She didn’t answer right away. Then she said, “The worst I’ve ever felt would be a three. And I was going to say eight for the best. But now maybe nine. I think.”

She looked at Reacher as she said it, in a certain way, and McCann’s sister caught the glance. She said, “Are you two sleeping together?”

No response.