“You think this is a joke?”
She shakes her head and tries to pull away from my hand.“No.I think it’s nostalgia.”
That almost undoes me.
I let go.Stand.
“If I were you,” I say, “I wouldn’t ever make the mistake of thinking this is something you’ve seen before.”
She leans back in the chair like it’s a throne.
“Too late.”
I move to the door.Stop.
“You want to tell yourself you’ve seen men like me before.”
My voice is flat when I turn toward her.“Try surviving one.”
She tilts her head, narrows her eyes.“Who’s to say I haven’t?”
20
Marlowe
He tries to leave.I don’t let him.
Not by force—by timing.
“You want a story?”I say.“I’ve got one, too.”
He hesitates.Just enough to be real.
His hand stays on the doorframe.Not turning.Not leaving.
So I start talking.
“Robert has a rule,” I say.“No surprises at the dinner table.”
That gets his attention.Because it sounds benign.Maybe even fair.
“Not long after we met, I found out what that meant.”
Vance studies me.Doesn’t ask who Robert is, or why I’m telling him this, and I’m almost surprised.
“I burned the roast,” I say.“Just a little.He was late getting home, and I left it in a few minutes too long.Nothing dramatic.It was just dry, slightly overcooked.Nonetheless, not the way he likes it.”
I wait.Let the shape of it land.Let him see the curve of something ordinary turning sharp.
“And I smiled when I told him—because I thought that might soften it.”
Vance doesn’t react.Just watches me as though he’s already decided the worst thing I could say—and knows I haven’t said it yet.
“He didn’t raise his voice.Didn’t scold me.He said it was fine.Told me to sit down, enjoy the evening.Said everyone makes mistakes.”
I glance down at my hands, as if I might find some trace of it still under my fingernails.
Then he called his assistant.Told her to come over for dinner.Said it was a shame to waste a whole roast on just the two of us.
