The Drawing of the Three (The Dark Tower, #2)

by Stephen King

George Biondi also had something not to like. He doubted if Eddie Dean was going to be wild about it, either. George was pretty sure that at some point after ’Cimi had come into the accountant’s office and doused the lights, Henry had died. Died quietly, with no muss, no fuss, no bother. Had simply floated away like a dandelion spore on a light breeze. George thought maybe it had happened right around the time Claudio left to wash his shitty hand in the kitchen. “Henry?” George muttered in Henry’s ear. He put his mouth so close that it was like kissing a girl’s ear in a movie theater, and that was pretty fucking gross, especially when you considered that the guy was probably dead—it was like narcophobia or whatever the fuck they called it—but he had to know, and the wall between this office and Balazar’s was thin.