Chapter 5

He came home at nine with a story already assembled.

I heard the door, heard him drop his keys, heard the particular ease in his footsteps—not rushed, not careful. Just a man who had already decided what he was going to say.

"Long one," he said, coming into the kitchen. He loosened his tie and reached for the Scotch without looking at me. "Client dinner ran late. You know how it is."

I was at the sink. I didn't turn around.

"Difficult client?" I asked.

"The worst kind." He poured two fingers, swirled the glass. "Indecisive. Kept circling back to…