Chapter 9: Twenty Questions

"Anything?" I said.

"Anything."

"How many questions do I get?"

"How many do you have?"

"Twenty, at least."

"Then twenty." He leaned his head back against the seat. "Go."

The engine ticked as it cooled. Down below, a barge pushed its lights up the Monongahela.

"Why did you say yes at the hotel?"

"Because you'd sent me that report," he said.

"And because three hundred people in that room had decided I killed my wife, and you walked up to me anyway."

"You didn't look scared."

"I was terrified."

"You didn't look it. That's one."

"Why do you still wear the washer?"

He turned his hand over and looked at it.

"It's the first thing anyone's given me in seven years that wasn't a subpoena."

I didn't have anything to say to that for a second.

"Two," he said.

"Were you and Elise happy?"

"Once." He didn't look away from the city. "I was twenty-six when we married. By the end we only talked about the building."

"We'd filed for divorce in April. She was living in the studio and I was living in the rest of the house."

"Did you hate her?"

"No. I liked her. I just didn't know how to be married to her anymore." He rubbed his thumb across his scarred palm. "Three."

"Four. What happened at the gala?"

His hand stopped.

"We fought. In the lobby, in front of about forty guests."

"She said some things and I said some things back, loud enough to make the papers."

"About what?"

He was quiet for a long moment.

"That one I can't answer yet."

I turned in my seat to face him. "You said anything."

"I know what I said." He finally looked at me. "There's one thing I can't tell you yet."

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