Page 106 of The Dangerous Dance

"Tired," I say.

"Extremely," he says.

"That's the first honest thing you've said in the last five minutes," I say.

"Everything I said was⁠—"

"Accurate," I say. "Not the same as honest." I look at him. At the rolled sleeves and the accumulated tiredness and the coffee cup he's holding with both hands like it's the only warm thing available. "Sit down."

He looks at me.

"Sit down," I say. "You look like you've been standing up all day."

"I have been standing up all day."

"Then sit down."

He sits. He sits in the kitchen chair and he sets the coffee cup down and he puts his forearms on the table and he looks at me across it with the expression of a man who has been waiting all day to be in a room where he doesn't have to perform readiness and has finally gotten there.

"Better," I say.

"The Marco conversation," he says. "He's seen the photographs."

"I assumed."

"He's—" He stops. "He was professional about it. He asked direct questions and I gave him direct answers and he received those answers with the specific expression of a man revising his assessment of a situation." He pauses. "He asked about you."

"What did he ask."

"Whether you were an asset or a liability." He holds my gaze. "I told him you were neither. That you were a person who'd made choices that cost her and that the choices had consistently benefited our shared operation." He pauses. "He said he'd like to meet you."

I absorb this. "When."

"When the situation has stabilized enough that a meeting doesn't carry more risk than information." He looks at his coffee. "He was — not hostile. He was careful. Which from Marco is more useful than friendly."

"I know," I say. "I've read his file."

He almost smiles. "Of course you have."

"It's thorough," I say. "Yours is better."

"You've read my file."

"Extensively," I say. "From before I arrived."

"What did it say."

"That you were dangerous and principled and had a history you were trying to make up for and that you weren't the same as your file suggested you'd be." I hold his gaze. "The last part wasn't in the file. That part I found out myself."

He looks at me for a moment.

"Turn around," I say.

He blinks. "What."

"Turn around. Face the other way." I make a gesture that indicates the chair orientation. "You've been standing up all day and your shoulders are carrying it and you look like someone's been putting weight on your neck since approximately nine this morning."

He looks at me with the expression of a man who is not accustomed to being told to turn around in his own kitchen.