“What?” he asks, like he doesn’t know
what I’m talking about.
I’m not buying it. “Just don’t.”
Ignoring us, Conlan walks over to where his
friend sits. He takes Ellington’s arm, tries to haul him to his
feet. “Don’t be like that,” he says, his voice so quiet, I can
barely hear it. “Come on, Ben. It’s not too late. It can’t
be.”
Either Conlan has a lot of strength in those
sinewy arms of his, or Ellington really hasgiven up, he
just doesn’t care, because he lets Conlan help him stand. He
doesn’t resist as Conlan leads him to where we wait, then past
us—Ellington lets his gaze slide over Parker, Shanley, me, like
we’re not even here. But he sees something in Dylan’s face,
something that makes him turn away and mumble, “I’m sorry about…”
He trails off, waving his hand in an obscure gesture. “About
everything.”
I give Dylan a shove to get him moving down
the corridor before he can answer. “It’s okay,” I say, as if