Chapter 8: Cyst

Reed came to my door at eleven the next night, and he smelled like a bar.

I knew the knock. It was the one he used when he wanted me to feel I was lucky he'd come.

I opened the door on the chain.

"I paid the three thousand four hundred," he said. "Check your account."

"I did. Thank you."

"Can I come in?"

"No."

He put his palm flat on the doorframe and leaned there.

"I saw the clip," he said. "The lobby. The woman in the gray sweatshirt."

"Lots of people own gray sweatshirts."

"You own that one. I bought it for you at the Cleveland Marathon."

I said nothing.

"What were you doing at St. Agnes that day?"

"My checkup. I told Cora. I have a cyst."

"You didn't have a cyst two weeks ago."

"You didn't ask me anything two weeks ago."

His jaw tightened, and for a moment I thought he would shout.

Instead he slid down the doorframe until he was sitting on the hall carpet with his back against the wall.

I unhooked the chain, because I couldn't stand to see a grown man on a floor.

"Sit at the table," I said. "Five minutes."

He sat. I stayed standing.

"I haven't slept," he said. "Every time I close my eyes, I see you at that dinner. And you looking at me."

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