Without Fail

until he closed the door.
    “I’m not angry at you,” she said. “You didn’t get Joe killed. I don’t really think that. And I’m not angry at Joe for getting killed. That just happened.”
    “You’re angry at something,” he said.
    “I’m angry at him for leaving me,” she said.
    He moved back into the room and sat on the end of the bed. This time, she sat right next to him.
    “I’m over him,” she said. “Completely. I promise you. I have been for a long time. But I’m not over how he just walked out on me.”
    Reacher said nothing.
    “And therefore I’m angry at myself ,” she said, quietly. “Because I wished him harm. Inside of me. I so wanted him to crash and burn afterward. And then he did . So I feel terribly guilty. And now I’m worried that you’re judging me.”
    Reacher paused a beat.
    “Nothing to judge,” he said. “Nothing to feel guilty about, either. Whatever you wished was understandable, and it had no influence on what happened. How could it?”
    She was silent.
    “He got in over his head,” Reacher said. “That’s all. He took a chance and got unlucky. You didn’t cause it. I didn’t cause it. It just happened.”
    “Things happen for a reason.”
    He shook his head.
    “No, they don’t,” he said. “They really don’t. They just happen. It wasn’t your fault. You’re not responsible.”
    “You think?”
    “You’re not responsible,” he said again. “Nobody’s responsible. Except the guy who pulled the trigger.”
    “I wished him harm,” she said. “I need you to forgive me.”
    “Nothing to forgive.”
    “I need you to say the words.”
    “I can’t,” Reacher said. “And I won’t. You don’t need forgiving. It wasn’t your fault. Or mine. Or Joe’s, even. It just happened. Like things do.”
    She was quiet for a long moment. Then she nodded, just slightly, and moved a little closer to him.
    “OK,” she said.
    “Are you wearing anything under that suit?” he asked.
    “You knew I had a gun in the kitchen.”
    “Yes, I did.”
    “Why did you search my house?”
    “Because I’ve got the gene that Joe didn’t have. Things don’t happen to me. I don’t get unlucky. You carrying a gun now?”
    “No, I’m not,” she said.
    There was silence for a beat.
    “And there’s nothing under the suit,” she said.
    “I need to confirm those things for myself,” he said. “It’s a caution thing. Purely genetic, you understand.”
    He undid the first button on her jacket. Then the second. Slipped his hand inside. Her skin was warm and smooth.

    They got a wake-up call from the motel desk at six o’clock in the morning. Stuyvesant must have arranged it last night , Reacher thought. I wish he’d forgotten . Froelich stirred at his side. Then her eyes snapped open and she sat up, wide awake.
    “Happy Thanksgiving,” he said.
    “I hope it will be,” she said. “I’ve got a feeling about today. I think it’s the day we win or lose.”
    “I like that kind of a day.”
    “You do?”
    “Sure,” he said. “Losing is not an option, which means it’s the day we win.”
    She pushed back the covers. The room had gone from too cold to too hot.
    “Dress casual,” she said. “Suits don’t look right on a holiday at a soup kitchen. Will you tell Neagley?”
    “You tell her. You’ll be passing her door. She won’t bite.”
    “She won’t?”
    “No,” he said.
    She put her suit back on and left. He padded over to the closet and pulled out the bag full of his Atlantic City clothes. He spilled them on the bed and did his best to flatten out the wrinkles. Then he showered without shaving. She wanted me to look casual , he thought. He found Neagley in the lobby. She was wearing her jeans and her sweatshirt with a battered leather jacket over it. There was a buffet table with coffee and muffins. The U.S. marshals had already eaten most of them.
    “You two kiss and make up?” Neagley asked.
    “A little of each, I guess,” he said.
    He took a cup and filled it with coffee. Selected a raisin bran muffin. Then Froelich showed up, newly showered and wearing black denim jeans with a black polo shirt and a black nylon jacket. They ate and drank whatever the marshals had left and then they walked out together to Stuyvesant’s Suburban. It was before seven in the morning on Thanksgiving Day and the city looked like it had been evacuated the night before. There was silence everywhere. It was cold, but the air was still and soft. The sun was