Chapter 4: Terms

Killian looked at me across the pastry case, and for a moment he did not speak.

His eyes went to the place on my head where the hair had grown back short.

The whole shop watched.

The man in orange waders had stopped with his coffee halfway to his mouth.

"Mireille," Killian said.

"It's Miri today," I said. "Four dollars for the roll."

"I'm not here to buy bread."

"Then you're blocking the line."

Nobody laughed.

The woman who had said you don't get that twice stood by the door with her paper bag held against her chest.

Killian took one step closer and lowered his voice.

"Come home. Please. We can do this in private."

"You told the country I fell."

"I told them what would bring you in."

"You told them I was confused and unwell."

"That wasn't me. That was..." He stopped.

"That was who?"

He said nothing.

I put both hands flat on the counter.

"I wasn't confused," I said, loud enough for the room. "I was on your marble floor with my head open, and you stepped over me and drove away."

The woman by the door put her hand over her mouth.

The man in waders set his coffee down on the nearest table without a sound.

Killian did not look at them.

He looked at me, and I saw his jaw work.

"I didn't know you were hurt," he said.

"You said stop faking it."

"I thought..."

His voice cut off.

"You thought what?"

"I can't," he said, low. "Not here."

"Then there's nothing to talk about."

He reached into his coat and set something on the counter.

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