Free The Ex by John Lutz

patting her back. There was no reason to tell him about the woman in the park now, no point in pushing him on the subject. He might consider her paranoid about Deirdre, and he might be right. New York was undeniably well stocked with leggy women who jogged and wore baseball caps and sunglasses.
    “Michael at Bernice’s again?” David asked.
    She nodded, prodding his chest with her forehead.
    “Let’s get him,” he said, “then the three of us can go out and have some supper. Sound okay?”
    “Sounds fine.” She remembered the last time he’d suggested dinner under similar circumstances. It had been for just the two of them. She liked it better this way.
    “Any preferences?” he asked.
    “Anywhere but the Rainbow Room.”
    They settled on hot dogs from the vendor down the street.
    David had been so reasonable she knew she’d been unreasonable. He could do that to her; it was one of the few infuriating things about him.
    But he was right, she knew. She’d become unsettled about a woman she’d never met, who might indeed have nothing to do with the jogger Molly had seen in the park. Probably had nothing to do with her.
    Not that it mattered, since Deirdre would soon be leaving New York to return to her home.
    The only thing remotely bothering Molly now was a persistent feeling that she’d shied away from a fear she should have faced. And maybe she should have had more faith in David.
    More faith in herself and the two of them together.

10
    Molly met Traci Mack the next afternoon in Egan’s, the lounge of the Darville Hotel on West Forty-fourth Street. Traci was the Link Publishing editor of the architectural manuscript. Molly had worked with her before, and the two women had become friends.
    Traci merely glanced at the first half of the thick manuscript, Architects of Desire, with its yellow Post-it flags sticking out from between the pages. As the waiter brought their drinks—a glass of chardonnay for Molly, a martini for Traci—Traci stuffed the manuscript into her black leather attaché case and leaned the case against the legs of her chair. She was a tiny, fortyish woman with graying hair and a droll expression that seldom changed. Her eyes were dark and always narrowed into slits as if she were myopic, and she had a round face, underslung jaw, and long upper lip that made her resemble a turtle. Molly had never seen the diminutive Traci in anything other than sacklike black dresses of the sort often worn by heavyset women to disguise bulk. Traci must have owned half a dozen similar outfits. Her idea of getting dressed up was to wear a sash or a belt.
    Molly sipped her wine and looked around Egan’s. There were about a dozen other customers scattered about the lounge. It was upscale but functional in the way of hotel bars, with small, marble-topped tables and a long bar with a large-screen TV mounted above it. A soap opera was on the TV but fortunately there was no volume. Beyond the far end of the bar was an archway and a sign indicating that it led to the lobby. Molly and Traci were at one of the small marble tables near the window. It was cool in the lounge; bright and bustling Manhattan streamed past in the heat on the other side of the glass.
    “Thanks for the first half of the manuscript, Mol.” Traci said in her rasping voice. “Gonna have the last half by the end of next week?”
    “Guaranteed,” Molly said. A man in threadbare clothes walked past close to the window, glanced inside, and locked gazes with her, then moved faster as if ashamed of his misfortune. Something about him gave Molly a chill. They were separated by much more than a pane of glass, yet his world waited for the weak the way a lion waited and watched the herd for potential victims. That was how Molly was trying not to feel—like a victim.
    Traci sat back, sighed, then smiled as she lifted her martini. “Enough of business. What’s going on in your life?”
    Molly told her.
    Traci leaned back in her chair and looked