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“You think this is a joke?”

She shakes her head and tries to pull away from my hand.“No.I think it’s nostalgia.”

That almost undoes me.

I let go.Stand.

“If I were you,” I say, “I wouldn’t ever make the mistake of thinking this is something you’ve seen before.”

She leans back in the chair like it’s a throne.

“Too late.”

I move to the door.Stop.

“You want to tell yourself you’ve seen men like me before.”

My voice is flat when I turn toward her.“Try surviving one.”

She tilts her head, narrows her eyes.“Who’s to say I haven’t?”

20

Marlowe

He tries to leave.I don’t let him.

Not by force—by timing.

“You want a story?”I say.“I’ve got one, too.”

He hesitates.Just enough to be real.

His hand stays on the doorframe.Not turning.Not leaving.

So I start talking.

“Robert has a rule,” I say.“No surprises at the dinner table.”

That gets his attention.Because it sounds benign.Maybe even fair.

“Not long after we met, I found out what that meant.”

Vance studies me.Doesn’t ask who Robert is, or why I’m telling him this, and I’m almost surprised.

“I burned the roast,” I say.“Just a little.He was late getting home, and I left it in a few minutes too long.Nothing dramatic.It was just dry, slightly overcooked.Nonetheless, not the way he likes it.”

I wait.Let the shape of it land.Let him see the curve of something ordinary turning sharp.

“And I smiled when I told him—because I thought that might soften it.”

Vance doesn’t react.Just watches me as though he’s already decided the worst thing I could say—and knows I haven’t said it yet.

“He didn’t raise his voice.Didn’t scold me.He said it was fine.Told me to sit down, enjoy the evening.Said everyone makes mistakes.”

I glance down at my hands, as if I might find some trace of it still under my fingernails.

Then he called his assistant.Told her to come over for dinner.Said it was a shame to waste a whole roast on just the two of us.