Hurst came on. He sounded irritable. Myra said, “I’m worried about Dillon, Mr. Hurst. You ain’t seen him, have you?”
“Hasn’t he come in?” Hurst sounded bored.
“No, I don’t know where he is…. I haven’t seen him all day.”
“Wasn’t he with you tonight?”
“I tell you I haven’t seen him all day,” Hurst snapped. “He’ll be along,” and he hung up.
Myra dropped the receiver into its cradle. Her eyes were stormy. There was only one reason why Dillon had lied to her. So the heel was two-timing. Who was the woman? Her hands clenched at her side, wave after wave of rage ran through her. For a moment she played with the idea of shooting Dillon there and then, but she knew he was now in too strong a position to be cast aside. Myra knew that without Dillon she would have to start all over again. No longer would she have an apartment or money…. No, Dillon must not be touched. It was the woman she’d have to go for.
Her rage subsided as she turned the problem over. The more she thought about it, the more she realized the danger she herself was in. Let Dillon find someone who really pleased him, and there was nothing to stop him from ditching her. He had Hurst and a tough mob at his back, and although she had given him ideas, and had helped him, she knew he was ruthless enough to toss her aside if she tried to make trouble for him.
She walked into the bedroom and began to undress. Dillon came out of the bathroom, humming to himself. She caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror. His eyes were dull; dark rings under them gave him a tired, heavy look. She caught her breath sharply, sitting there, her heart beating hard.
Dillon got into bed and snapped off the lamp at his side. “Come on,” he said, “I wantta go to sleep.”
She stood up, passing the comb through her hair. “You are tired tonight,” she said, keeping her voice steady with an effort.