"Correct."
"Is he cold and calculating but charming, or impulsive, erratic, and emotionally reactive?" I ask.
He glances at me. "Psychopathically, then, if you wish to split hairs on the man's specific mental disorder." Again, I'm detecting a distinct shift in the way he speaks. It's subtle but noticeable.
"If, as you say, he's wanted you dead for a long time, why is he just now attempting to render you deceased?"
"I was out of reach until recently."
"How can you be out of the reach of a supervillain?"
"By being dead." He doesn't even have the decency to look at me when he drops this bomb.
"Excuse you?"
A sigh. "It's a long story."
"We've been over this, Jakob."
"I answered your question, Brys." His tone is hard, sharp.
Good thing I'm used to dealing with men with overblown senses of self.
"And in so doing raised, ohhh, at least a hundred more."
"A quid pro quo, then." He shoots me a look, dark eyes as unreadable as ever. "One question for one question."
"You have a deal, sir," I answer.
We've moved six inches in the last twenty minutes. Good thing this isn't a car chase.
"You may start," he says.
"The only caveat I'll put in here," I say, "is that your answers must be thorough and complete and direct. No vague nonanswers."
He growls softly. "Fine."
"The woman back there," I say—he immediately tenses, his shoulders lifting toward his ears, his jaw turning to granite, "your entire demeanor shifted the instant you laid eyes on her. Who is she to you? And don't say 'just an ex' because it's obviously way more than that."
He huffs—technically a laugh, but really just a wordless noise of irritation. "Right for the jugular, is it?"
I shrug. "How'm I supposed to know? You saw some lady on a street corner and turned all tense and angry and formal."
He glances at me. "Formal?"
I nod. "Yup. Until you saw her, you were…looser. Not just in terms of tension, but…speech patterns. Mannerisms. You're all…" I sit up straight enough to make Miss Manners proud. "Uptight…Erect.” I point at him. "No crude jokes."
He narrows his eyes. "Crass humor is the purview of the simple-minded."
I laugh. "See? Like that."
He frowns thoughtfully, scratches his jaw. "Her name is Isabel Maria de la Vega Navarro Ryder."
"That's a mouthful." I blink as my mind summons bits of memory. "Wait…Isabel Ryder. She founded the Minnie Centers and A Temporary Home…she's a philanthropist, isn't she?"
"Something along those lines, yes. I doubt she would refer to herself as such, however. She's far too humble for that." When I offer no remark, he eyes me. "There. I told you who she was—is."
"I obviously meant who is sheto you."
