“I think we were shaped by the same man,” she says. “You by his presence. Me by his absence.” A beat. “I think we responded differently. And I think that scares you.”
I don’t speak.
“You don’t deny it,” she notes.
“I don’t need to.”
“You don’t deny much,” Iris says. “That’s what people like about you. You own it. You don’t flinch.”
“And you?” I ask. “What do people like about you?”
A shorter pause. “They like that I listen.”
I nod slowly. “That tracks.”
“Are you angry with me?” she asks.
I consider it.
“No,” I say. “I’m irritated. There’s a difference.”
“Good.”
“Why?”
“Anger clouds judgment,” she says. “I’d rather you be clearheaded.”
I close my eyes.
This woman is dangerous.
Not because she’s threatening me.
Because she isn’t.
“You said you wanted to get to know me,” I say. “This is a strange way to start.”
“I disagree,” she replies. “It’s the only way you would respect.”
I hate that she’s right.
“Where are you?” I ask.
Another smile I can hear. “A café on Main in Santa Clarita.”
I think of my run-ins with Jesika in Chicago. The river dyed green for St. Patrick’s Day. Jesika. So much blood. It feels like a lifetime ago now.
I don’t ask how she knows I’m close enough for that to be a casual suggestion. I don’t give her the satisfaction.
“You planned this,” I say.
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Since the podcast went viral,” she says. “Since I realized the world was going to crown you either way.”
“And you wanted a front-row seat.”
