Chapter 8: You Opened It First

He walked me home along the lake, three steps behind, with a napkin around his hand.

I didn't tell him to stop.

At my door, my neighbour was waiting in the hall with her coat on.

"He ate all his soup," she said, in Swiss German, and looked at Quentin with open interest. "He's asleep. I'm going."

She went.

I let Quentin into my kitchen because the stairwell was too narrow for what I had to say.

He stood at the window with the lights of the lake behind him.

"Tell me," he said again.

I put both hands flat on the counter.

"At the gala I said, 'Quentin, look at me.' And you looked."

"Yes."

"I watched you decide."

"Sabina."

"You didn't call my name. You didn't ask who gave you the file. You took my wrist in your hand, and you undid the clasp yourself."

My voice was steady. I was proud of that.

"Anyone can drop a bangle," I said. "You opened it first. You wanted it off me before it hit the floor."

He closed his eyes.

"That is what I can't forgive," I said. "Not the recording. Not the money. You never asked me a second question."

He was silent for a long time.

"I thought it was your voice," he said at last. "I knew your voice better than my own."

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