Chapter 15: The Trade

On Thursday at 7:40 Otis ate his half of my turkey sandwich and said nothing about the lobby.

He chewed for a while and looked at the sign-in book.

"He was down here at six," he said. "He sat on the bench by the elevators until the cleaners left."

"I don't want to hear about him."

"Okay."

"What did he do?"

"Nothing," said Otis. "That was the report."

I went up in the elevator, which made its noise, and I did not turn my head toward the third desk from mine.

The green ledger was in the middle of my desk, squared to the edge.

I opened it to the last page.

It was in blue pen, in small neat capitals, and it was laid out as a bill.

C. PEMBROKE, ACCOUNT OF WHAT IS OWED.

1. Four hundred and eighty-one lunches. I watched every one. Not mine to price.

2. One name, given in a stairwell, on a Friday at ten to five. Not mine to price.

3. Eight months of mileage sheets signed unread. Mine.

At the bottom it said: No payment requested. Terms are hers. She may keep this page, tear it out, or read it to the floor. I will not ask which.

I stared down at the lines.

Then I looked up.

Killian was at his desk, with his back very straight and his mug in both hands, not looking at me.

He was waiting for the sound of a page being torn.

I turned my pen over and wrote a single word under his, in pencil.