Free Lady of the Shades by Darren Shan

fritz. I asked Shar about Deleena. I was curious.’
    ‘Uh-huh.’ I’m not sure what’s coming, but at least it has nothing to do with my past.
    Joe hesitates, then comes out with it. ‘Shar doesn’t know her.’
    I digest the information, then seek clarification. ‘Shar doesn’t know Deleena?’
    ‘She doesn’t have a Deleena Emerson on her books. None of her clients even has a name
like
Deleena Emerson.’
    ‘Did you describe Deleena to her? Maybe she uses another name when –’
    ‘How could I describe her?’ he cuts in. ‘I’ve never seen her.’
    ‘Oh. Right.’ I stare at the dashboard, bewildered.
    ‘I should have kept my mouth shut,’ Joe mumbles.
    ‘No. You were right to tell me.’
    ‘What will . . . ?’
    ‘Please. No questions. Just leave it with me.’
    ‘OK.’ He taps the steering wheel. ‘You want to hang out here a while or go back to the hotel?’
    ‘Back to the hotel.’ I smile humourlessly. ‘I’ve got a date to prepare for.’
    We meet in a pizza house. Deleena is a woman of varied tastes. A Michelin-starred restaurant one night, Burger King the next. I order a ham and mushroom pizza, Deleena opts for
pepperoni. A bottle of house white.
    I’ve been keeping conversation to a minimum. Deleena senses something wrong but pretends that all is normal. She tells me about her day at work and how much she enjoyed last night –
we went to a beer festival and drank from massive wooden pitchers – and makes suggestions for tomorrow. I respond with sniffs and shrugs, waiting for her to get frustrated and force the
issue.
    ‘OK,’ she finally says, laying down her knife and fork. ‘What have I done?’
    I finish the slice of pizza I was working on and wash it down with a mouthful of wine before replying. ‘I know that you’ve been lying to me.’ Deleena stiffens but says nothing.
‘Shar doesn’t know you. You’re not one of her clients.’
    She rocks forwards and backwards, face neutral, hands on the table, fingers at rest. ‘You can leave now if you want,’ she offers. ‘I’ll take care of the bill.’
    ‘I’m going nowhere until you explain.’
    ‘Why bother?’ she says. ‘If I’ve lied once, I’ll probably lie to you again. The wise thing would be to walk away, delete my number from your phone and hang up if
you ever hear from me again.’
    ‘I thought about that. A week ago I might have. But now . . . ’ I want to reach across and shake answers from her, but I settle for a glare. ‘Is Deleena even your real
name?’
    ‘No,’ she says coolly. ‘It’s Andeanna. I
am
a client of Shar’s — that much is true. Check with her. She’ll recognize the name this
time.’
    ‘Why feed me an alias?’
    ‘I’m sure you can guess. It’s not especially complicated.’
    ‘You’re married?’ I ask, and she nods. That simple gesture almost drives me from the table and out of her life. Only her expression of utter misery holds me. ‘Do you love
him?’
    ‘Christ, Ed!’ She laughs blackly.
    ‘Do you love
me
?’
    She’s shaking now. Can’t look me in the eye. Slides her hands under the table so I can’t see them trembling. ‘It’s not as simple as that,’ she croaks.
‘There are things you don’t know.’
    ‘So tell me.’
    She raises her head. Tears are welling in her eyes. I ignore them and focus on her lips, reading the words as they form, alert for lies. ‘You remember that man we ran into? Bond
Gardiner?’
    ‘He’s your husband?’
    ‘No. Emerson is my maiden name. My married name is Menderes. My husband is –’
    ‘Mikis Menderes,’ I interrupt, one jump ahead of her.
    She blinks, taken aback. ‘You know him?’
    ‘Mikis Menderes, aka the Turk.’
    ‘You know who he is?
What
he is?’
    ‘I’ve read about him in the papers,’ I lie
    ‘He makes the papers in the States?’ she frowns.
    ‘No,’ I correct myself, quickly tweaking my story. ‘I read about him here, on one of my previous trips to the UK.’
    ‘Then you know why