Thin.
Tight.
A little too high.
I set the gold pen down with the care of a woman placing a scalpel back in its tray.
“Yes,” I said. “I was.”
Brooke’s fingers tightened around the edge of her cream leather handbag.
“Mom, we really should finish this first,” she said. “Paul has another appointment.”
Paul swallowed.
He did not look like a man with another appointment.
He looked like a man beginning to understand he had walked into the wrong house with the wrong briefcase on the wrong afternoon.
Continue on the next page:
