Chapter 11: The Man Who Never Asked

Miles's POV

Krista Dunleavy stood in front of Estelle Marchbanks's iron gate at seven in the morning.

She had a ring light on a tripod and a pink hoodie on.

She talked to her phone in a bright, confiding voice.

"So, we're here, you guys, and this is where the bride is hiding," she said.

"I don't know if she's okay. I'm just worried."

I came down the drive in my shirtsleeves, with a cup of coffee in my hand.

She saw me and her whole face lit up.

"Oh my God, chat, look. It's the accountant."

"Good morning," I said.

"Are you here to guard her?"

"I'm here for breakfast with Mrs. Marchbanks."

"At seven? In yesterday's shirt?"

She angled the phone up at me.

I looked into it.

I had spent six years being the quiet man in the room, and I was not afraid of a lens.

"This is private property," I said, evenly.

"If you keep filming, I'll call the police, and the police will watch the footage."

"Have a good morning."

I turned and walked back up the drive.

Behind me, I heard her say, "Well, that was rude. Hit the like button, you guys."

I did not feel anything about it.

Simone was upstairs, reading Nan's text with her hair across the pillow, and I could still feel her against my skin.

I put that away.

I had a meeting at ten.

Sallis Capital had a floor and a half in a glass building in the Loop.

The Marchbanks Patron Fund paid the lease.

I had seen the rent roll many times and had never seen the lobby.

It was all pale wood and expensive plants.

A young receptionist looked up from her screen and asked if I had an appointment.

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