Chapter 21: His Last Offer

His old boss called at nine on New Year's Eve.

"Mrs. Nordquist," a man said. "Clinton gave us your number. He says you can speak to his state of mind."

"I can speak to one fact," I said.

"Please."

"He told two families two different stories for seven years, and he took my money to pay for it. If you're asking whether he's reliable, no."

The man was quiet for a while.

"Thank you," he said. "That's what we heard from the other side."

I hung up, and my hand was steady.

Clinton's text came an hour later.

Last time. The Pine Cone Diner on Highway 13, noon. Then I'll leave you alone for good.

Stian read it over my shoulder in his kitchen.

"You don't have to go," he said.

"I know."

"I'll drive you either way."

"I know that too."

The diner stood at a bend in the road, with a neon pine cone in the window and a row of trucks outside.

Stian parked at the end of the lot and shut off the engine.

"I'll wait here," he said.

"You don't have to."

"I'd like to."

I kissed him once, quick, with the whole parking lot watching, and got out.

Clinton was in a booth by the window, in the green sweater.

He had shaved, and the cuts on his chin were fresh.

A cup of coffee sat in front of him, untouched.

I sat across from him and put my hands on the table.

"Thank you for coming," he said.

"You have until the coffee's cold."

"That's fair."

He pushed a thick folder across the table.

"I went to a lawyer," he said. "I didn't want to, but I did. Everything in it is yours. The house. I'll sign my half over. I sold the golf clubs."

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