Chapter 7: The Window

I took the chain off.

"Five minutes," I said. "And you don't sit down."

He stepped into my kitchen and looked around it.

It was the same kitchen. Same yellow table, same chipped blue mugs, same window over the water.

He'd proposed to me at that table with a ring in a coffee filter, because he said the box was too obvious.

I'd laughed so hard I knocked over the milk.

"You didn't change anything," he said.

"Why would I? It's mine."

He put the listing down on the yellow table.

I didn't pick it up.

"Well?" he said.

"Don't sign it."

He waited.

"Don't sell the condo," I said. "Don't pay Note Two. Don't pay my father a cent."

"If I don't, he defaults again in August, and you take another seat."

"Yes."

"And then you come for me anyway."

"Maybe."

He laughed, tired, and rubbed his face with both hands.

"That's your advice? Let you win?"

"That's my advice. Let him lose."

I leaned against the counter and folded my arms.

"And what do I get?" he said. "If I don't sign."

"You keep your condo until August."

"And after August?"

"After August we find out who you work for."

Clive was quiet.

"You've been his lawyer for five years," I said. "Has he ever once paid for anything himself?"

The radiator banged.

He jumped a little, and then he almost smiled.

"That thing still does that."

"In July. Every night."

"I told you I'd fix it."

"You told me a lot of things."

That wiped the smile off.

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