Chapter 12: The Knife

Weston's POV

Sabine had answered Rex in front of seven directors without hesitation.

"Yes," she had screamed. "It's yours, you idiot. Who else's would it be?"

Her father had said her name like a man watching a car go off a bridge.

Rex had not touched her.

He had said, "Then you'll tell them the truth, all of it, in public."

Then he had walked out, and she had run after him in her cream dress.

That had been yesterday.

At six the next morning I was in my kitchen alone, in a T-shirt, making coffee.

Marin had gone an hour before.

She had kissed me at the door and taken her folder.

She had left the yellow note on my counter, under the saltshaker.

She had said we would talk about it tonight, and her voice had been steady.

I poured a cup.

Then I felt it, the small change in the air that tells you the room has a second person.

I turned around.

Sabine was standing in my kitchen doorway.

She still had the spare key I'd given her six years ago. I had never asked for it back.

Her cream dress was creased and her hair was flat.

She had been awake all night, and she had cried until there was nothing left.

She was holding a long steel knife from my knife block.

It was the one I used for bread.

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