"It's a contingency."
"Uh huh."
She's looking at me now like I'm not furniture anymore. Like she's reassessing. There's something in the way she holds her mouth, the slight smile that isn't quite a smile, that tells me I just gave her a piece of information I didn't mean to give.
I've met women like this. Not many, but enough. Women who hear the wordtieand their pulse does something instead of panic.
I clock it and I file it and I put it somewhere I'm not going to look at again this trip.
"Ground rules," I say.
"Another round. Lovely."
"You don't answer that phone if it rings. You don't text unless I've cleared the number. You stay off the windows. And if I tell you to get low, you get low, and you don't ask me why until we're clear."
"And in return."
"In return I don't tie you to the chair."
Her mouth twitches.
"Tempting."
"Simone."
"Grayson."
Something about the way she says my full name does a thing to my chest I'm not equipped to handle.
"I'm serious."
"I can see that."
"Say it."
"Say what."
"Say you heard me."
She holds my eyes. A long second. Then she says, quiet, "I heard you."
"Good."
I push off the doorframe.
"Get some food. There's eggs. Bread. Something that looks like a tomato but is probably older than I am. I'll be downstairs on the phones."
"Gray."
I stop at the door.
"Thank you."
I don't turn around all the way. Just enough to nod once over my shoulder.
"Don't thank me yet."
Downstairs I setup a perimeter check schedule in my head. Every ninety minutes. Full visual sweep of the tree line from the upstairs south window, the north corner, the rear deck. I check the shotgun in the office, rack a round, set the safety, prop it behind the desk. Lock the front and back doors. Wedge the back door with a chair, old habit.
