Chapter 8: Paragraph Nine

"It's not what it looks like," Brennan said.

He sat up in the dark and reached for the phone, and I laid my hand over it.

"Does she get a report every night?"

"She's my chief of staff, Lena. She asked where you'd be sleeping because of the security alarm."

"At eleven at night."

"She works late."

"She texted you that you always tell her everything."

He looked at the screen for a long moment.

"I did," he said quietly. "For two years I did. It's a habit."

I knew about habits.

"Then break it," I said. "Answer her. Tell her where I slept."

He picked up the phone.

I watched him type, delete, type again, and I watched his thumb hover.

He sent it.

I read it over his shoulder. It said: She slept with me. Goodnight, Bree.

He put the phone face down on the nightstand and lay back, and neither of us said a word for a while.

Then his hand found mine under the blanket and stayed there.

I did not move it.

On Monday Hartwell came to the Corrigan Freight offices for the lunch that would, we were told, finalize everything.

The boardroom had a long glass table, a view of the freeway, and a tray of sandwiches I had insisted on ordering from Dot.

Six men in suits sat on one side. Hartwell sat at the head with his cane against his chair.

I sat beside Brennan in a navy dress with my hands folded.

Bree came in last with a leather folder and a smile for the room.

"Good afternoon, everyone. Mrs. Corrigan, what a lovely dress."

"Thank you, Bree. You're looking well."

"I've been sleeping beautifully."

She sat at the foot of the table, across from me, and did not look at Brennan.

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