Chapter 7: The Table Again

The lift went down to the house for the second time in six days.

This time I rode it by myself, with the marker in my coat.

The doors opened on the same low lamps and the same green carpet.

The same men sat at the same tables.

They stopped playing when I stepped out, and one of them stood up.

A second man stood.

By the time I reached the middle of the room every player in the house was on his feet, and nobody said a word.

The dealer in the black vest was waiting at the empty table.

He drew out a chair for me, not the one I had sat in on Saturday but a larger one, with arms.

"Mrs. Rask," he said.

"Marrin," I said. "I'm using my own name now."

"As you like." He seemed almost pleased.

The wall of dark glass was in front of me again.

The old man sat behind it in his gray suit, looking at nothing in particular.

I couldn't see his face from where I sat, only the shape of him.

"The house asked you to bring the marker," the dealer said.

"The account will be read aloud before the one who owes it."

"Where is he?"

"He is on his way down."

The lift hummed.

Behind me the doors opened, and I heard footsteps on the carpet that I knew better than I wanted to.

Lowell came in first, in a navy suit and no tie, and he looked ten years older than he had in the boardroom.

Donovan came behind him.

His father's hand was not on his arm this time.

Donovan stopped at the edge of the green carpet and stayed there, as I had told him to on the phone.

"You can watch," I'd said. "You can't speak, and you can't help him."

I saw his jaw move once.

He did not step forward.

"Kathleen," Lowell said, and held out both hands. "My dear. Thank God. We can talk about this like family."

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