I show Maya the screen. Her face shifts. Her feet go still in my lap.Worse than expected.His father read him.
"How long?" she asks.
"He's probably already on 95. Forty minutes, maybe."
She stands. Pulls the pen from her hair, twists the knot back up. Her eyes go to the door.
"He's going to come through that door wired," she says. "The dinner with his father is his version of the envelope. The thing that reaches in and grabs the part of you that belongs to the person who made you."
"I know."
"What does he need?"
"Us. Here. On this couch when he walks through the door."
We stay on the couch. Her feet in my lap. The TV still on, still unwatched.
The door opens at 12:30 a.m. His keys. His footsteps. Heavy. Slow.
He appears in the living room doorway. The suit is creased. His hair is disheveled, a sign so rare it registers as alarm. He looks at Maya's feet in my lap. At the TV neither of us is watching. At the two of us, awake, exactly where we said we'd be.
His face loosens. One degree. Whatever happened at the dinner is still sitting in his body, but his eyes move over the couch, the TV, Maya's hand, me.
Maya lifts her feet from my lap. Makes space between us. Holds out her hand.
He crosses the room, drops his phone and keys on the coffee table, takes her hand, and sits between us. The middle is the position he never takes. Tonight, he lets his shoulders touch both of us.
He drops his head against Maya's shoulder. She holds it. Fingers in his hair.
I shift closer. Press against his other side. My arm around his shoulders, my hand finding the back of his neck, the hollow, the spot that belongs to all of us. The suit fabric is cold from outside. Underneath, his body is rigid. Locked. Maya's fingers move through his hair, and his shoulder finally gives a fraction under my arm.
He exhales. Long. Shaking. His ribs drop under my forearm.
His hand finds my knee. Grips. Holds.
He doesn't talk about the dinner. He'll tell us tomorrow. Or he won't.
Maya's eyes find mine over the top of his head.
The living room is quiet. The TV murmurs. Three people on a couch. The lights on. The door unlocked.
Then Dante's phone buzzes on the coffee table. Face up. The screen bright in the dim room.
Marco.
Consider it handled. David Ashford will be monitored. No further contact with Maya. Call me when you're ready to discuss the details.
Maya's eyes move from my face to the phone. She reads the screen. I read the screen. Dante stays against her shoulder, eyes closed, his hand still on my knee.
He doesn't reach for the phone. Because he already knows what it says.
Maya's hand stills in his hair. Her jaw tightens. Her eyes come back to mine over the top of his head, sharp and cold. Her mouth doesn't move. Dante's breathing is even against her shoulder. His hand is still on my knee. Marco's text stays lit on the coffee table.
My hand tightens on the back of his neck. Maya doesn't say a word.
The text glows until the screen goes dark.
Chapter 25
