Ninety-Nine

NINETY-NINE

brIGID'S HOUSE, THE ONE she shared with her husband until she didn't, is an old-fashioned Hamptons saltbox, with a white picket fence around her front lawn. Her new Audi is in the driveway.

The lights are on inside.

I knock on the front door, just to signal that I'm here, before trying the handle.

"It's open."

She's sitting on the couch. No ballcap covering her bald head tonight. Maybe she doesn't bother when she's alone. She told me when I invited her to dinner with Ben and me that she didn't want to put her hair on.

Somehow, as frail as she is, she's still beautiful, at least to me.

Just not alone.

Sitting across from her, cradling what looks like a .22 pistol in his lap, is Nick Morelli.

"Long time, no see," he says.

Then he waves at me with the gun, telling me to shut the door and take a seat next to my sister, there are things we need to discuss.