"Do you? Because Marco said for now. Marco said until the next time. And you're standing here twenty-four hours later proving him right."
"Three to five years, Cole. Then release. Then the letters start again."
Cole's jaw works. His eyes are bright. He looks at Maya. Holds there. I can see him doing the math, three to five years, then release, then the letters start again, then the walkway scanning, then the 413 calls. His eyes drop to Maya's hands on the mug, then to the phone on the table.
He looks back at me. His hands grip the counter edge hard enough to whiten his knuckles and hold there for a long time. Then his grip loosens, and his hands drop.
"This is your call," he says to her. "Yours."
Maya's hands are around her tea. The mug is cold. Her eyes stay on the counter, on the wear mark from her jeans, on her spot.
She lifts the tea, drinks the cold dregs, and sets the mug in the sink.
She walks to the doorway, stops, and grips the doorframe. Doesn't turn around.
"I'm going upstairs," she says. "I need a minute alone."
Her hand releases the frame, and she goes upstairs. The stairs creak. The bedroom door closes, and nothing moves below it.
Two men. One phone. The ceiling quiet above us.
Cole sits across from me. Hands flat on the table.
"You're sure," he says.
"I've been sure since the 413 calls. Since every walkway she scans. Since her hands shook at this table."
Cole nods. Once.
He stands, walks to the sink, and starts washing the pan, the eggs, the dishes, his back to me.
Water runs downstairs. Silence holds upstairs.
I pick up the phone. Press the letter M.
Marco picks up on the second ring.
"Fratello." The same warmth. The lobby. The carpet. The forehead against mine. The card that said just the name and the number.
"I need something," I say. "One more time."
A breath.
"Tell me," Marco says.
I give him the name, the facility, the timeline. Clean. Precise. The words come out in the voice I use on the ice, controlled, steady. Twenty-four hours ago, I drew the line in this kitchen. Now my voice crosses it.
Marco listens. When I finish, three beats of silence.
"Consider it handled."
"Marco."
"Yes."
"This is the last time."
"Of course." A pause. "Until the next time."
