I know he’s wrong.
And knowing it, right now, in this car, going home to a life I don’t know how to fit back into—
Is the most useless thing in the world.
8
Maxim
Three weeks back, and I’m operational again. Rafail has things that need handling. There are always things that need handling. That’s what I’m for — the difficult things, the unspeakable things, the things that require a man who has already made his peace with what he is. I handle them. I do it efficiently. I go home to my Boston apartment and I pour a drink and I don’t look at the folder on my laptop because I deleted it.
I didn’t delete it.
I moved it. New location. No label. Old habit.
Daniil keeps the reports brief, which means he’s decided what information I can and cannot handle and is editing accordingly. He’s not wrong to do it. The one he sends Wednesday evening is four lines.Dinner. Beacon Hill. Italian place on Charles Street. Two hours. He walked her home.
I read it twice.
Then I pour a second drink.
He calls Thursday morning.
“She had dinner with the accountant.”
“I know. You sent a report.”
“I’m calling because you read it twelve times and then didn’t respond for six hours and I want to make sure you’re still functional.”
I look at the ceiling. “I’m functional.”
“She looked happy, Max.” His voice is even. Not gentle — Daniil doesn’t do gentle. Just even. “According to the team, she laughed twice and let him walk her home.”
“Good.” The word comes out flat. I mean it, mostly. “Good. She deserves—”
“Don’t.” The patience in his voice has limits and I’ve found one. “Don’t tell me what she deserves. Tell me why you’re sleeping on sheets from the safe house.”
The silence that follows is very loud.
“The housekeeper mentioned it.”
“Fire her.”
“Max.”
I set the glass down. “She had dinner with a man who is good for her. A man who doesn’t have bodies in his professional history. A man who can walk her home and mean it as an ending not a beginning. That is the correct outcome for a woman like Laura.” I know how the sentence sounds. I keep going anyway. “I’m fine with it.”
“You are not even remotely fine with it.”
“Daniil—”
“Are you worried she’ll go ahead and marry him?”
The question sits in the air between us and I let it sit for a long moment before I answer, because there’s a right answer and an honest answer and they aren’t the same thing.
“No,” I say.
“Explain that to me. Because from where I’m standing, a woman you sent away is having dinner with her former fiancéand you’re sleeping on stolen bedding and that sounds like a situation with a foreseeable outcome.”
