Free Play Dead by Harlan Coben Page B

respond.
    'And Gloria wants to speak to you first.'
    'About what?'
    Serita paused. 'Your mother.'
    Laura's eyes grew angry. For the first time since David's death, they showed some sort of life. 'What about my mother?'
    'She wants to come to the memorial service.'
    'Fuck her.'
    'That's your answer?'
    'That's my answer.'
    Serita shrugged. 'I'm but the secretary. Now get your ass out of bed.'
    Though Laura had spent the last three days in this bed, sleep never visited her, never gave her an opportunity to escape the nightmare that reality had become. And now she did not want to get out of the bed, did not want to get dressed, did not want to attend a public memorial service at Faneuil Hall.
    I love you so much, David. You know I can never love anyone else. Please come back to me. Please come back and hold me gently and tell me all over again how much you love me and how wonderful our life together is going to be. Tell me again about the things we're going to share, about the children we're going to raise.
    'They're expecting massive traffic delays,' Serita continued. 'I think everyone in Boston is going to be jammed into Quincy Market for this. I sure hope Earl doesn't screw up his speech.'
    Try as she might, Laura felt the tears sliding down her face again.
    'Come on, Laura.' Serita gently pulled the covers off her friend and helped her sit up. 'You have to be there.'
    'I know.' She wiped her face with her sleeve. 'I'm glad Earl is going to do a eulogy. And I'm glad you two are together.'
    'We're not together,' Serita stressed, 'only fucking.'
    Laura forced out a chuckle. 'Wonderful.'
    Serita was the best friend Laura had with the exception of her sister Gloria, if you wanted to count a sister as a friend, and Laura had befriended very few models during her magazine-cover days. This was not because of the ridiculous stereotype that models are dumb. They're not. Actually, they're a rather crafty and intelligent group. But sometimes their self-image got in the way of uncovering the real them. Plus, with Laura being unquestionably the world's number-one model, many of the other women were somewhat jealous of her. And jealousy was an emotion Laura doubted Serita had ever experienced.
    Today, the city of Boston was dedicating a bronze statue to David to be placed in Faneuil Hall, near Clip Arnstein's own likeness. Clip was the Celtics' seventy-year-old president, a man who David had both loved and respected. He, along with the mayor of Boston, Senator Ted Kennedy (a man David had never cared much for), Earl, and Timmy Daniels, another Celtics teammate, were going to eulogize her husband.
    The work on the statue had been started months ago but for a whole different purpose. Originally, it was to be placed in a small playground at a school for handicapped children in honor of David's work. Now, it had been speedily completed and moved to Faneuil Hall to stand in memory of his premature death. Laura sighed. She could not help but think that David would have preferred to keep the statue in the small playground.
    After the dedication, there would be a private burial. Burial. Funeral. Laura shook her head as Serita led her into the bathroom. She heard Serita turn on the water.
    'Go on. Get in there.'
    Laura stepped into the shower, the water cascading over her naked body.
    Don't make me go to some service, Serita. There's no reason really. You see, David is not dead. It's all a lie. David is just fine. I know he is. He promised he would never leave me. He promised that we would be together forever. And David never broke a promise. You know that. So you see, he can't be dead. He can't be dead. He can't be . . .
    Her body slowly slid down the shower's tile wall until she lay huddled in the corner of the stall. Then she placed her hands over her face and cried.
    The surgeon looked at the clock on the far wall.
    4:45 a.m.
    He took a deep breath and continued stitching. A few minutes later, the wounds were all closed.
    Six hours of