Chapter 4: Don't Overthink It

I did not notice the blood until we were in the car.

It was on the seat leather, a dark spot the size of a coin.

I opened my left hand and found a cut across the palm.

The edge of the watch clasp had bitten into it when I closed my fist around it in the corridor.

"Hold still," Jonas said.

"It's nothing. I treat worse before breakfast."

"Then you won't mind me looking."

He did not ask a second time.

The house stood behind a stone wall in the old part of the city, with a long drive and one light burning over the door.

Jonas walked me through a hall, down two steps, and into a kitchen so big that my footsteps came back to me.

He sat me on a stool.

He took a first-aid box from a drawer, set it beside me, and turned my hand palm up under the light.

His fingers were warm and dry.

He cleaned the cut with a cotton pad, slowly, and his thumb rested on the inside of my wrist while he worked.

I felt my pulse jump against it.

I told myself the day had worn me raw, and that anyone's pulse would jump.

His hand was not quite steady when he taped the gauze down.

I told myself that was the drive.

"Thank you," I said.

"Don't thank me," he said, and he took his hand away. "I haven't done anything yet."

"You came to City Hall in twenty minutes."

"I've been waiting three years to be asked."

I looked down at the bandage so I would not have to look at him.

"I have terms," I said.

"Go on."

"One year. We stay married for twelve months, and in public I'm your wife. In private we keep separate rooms."

"Agreed."

"After the year, we divorce, and we're even. The debt is closed, and we never talk about it again."

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