Page 22
He nods, accepting the answer without offering some meaningless platitude about how she’s in a better place.
I appreciate that.
Then he notices the clothes in my arms.
“What are those?”
“Pants. A shirt. Two things society generally expects you to wear in public.”
He takes the gray sweatpants and black T-shirt.
“They smell of another man.”
I freeze.
Seriously?
“Do they?”
His gaze lifts to mine.
“Who is he?”
“Nobody.”
His jaw tightens.
“Nobody has a name?”
“Vidar.”
He looks at the clothes again.
“Did he hurt you?”
I fold my arms.
“Can we please go five minutes without discussing violence?”
He considers this.
“Four.”
I laugh despite myself.
“You’re impossible.”
“So I have been told.”
“By whom?”
“Many.”
“Shocking.”
He examines the sweatpants, then looks at me.
“Turn around.”
