Chapter 4: A Rental

Alistair hung his hat on the peg by the kitchen door.

"Please, sit," he said. "Both of you. Margot, your hand."

"It's fine, Father."

"It is not fine. It is bandaged by a tattoo artist."

He said it gently, and that was worse than if he had sneered.

I stayed standing.

Alistair sat at the head of the kitchen island and folded his hands on the marble.

"Mr. Cronin. I have not thanked you for the last three years."

"You don't have to."

"I do. My daughter needed a husband for a certain period, and you were reliable. You did not ask for more than the agreement gave."

He reached into his coat and set a plain cream envelope on the counter.

"Two million dollars. Wired to any account you name, tonight, with no conditions except distance. Another city. Another state would be better."

Margot made a sound in her throat.

I looked at the envelope and did not touch it.

"Two million dollars is a lot for a man you've never named."

"It is a fair price for a quiet man."

"And what does the quiet man have to do?"

"Disappear," Alistair said. "And take your belongings with you. All of them."

He let that last word sit on the table between us.

"Mr. Cronin, do you have any children?"

The kitchen clock ticked.

Under the counter, Margot's good hand closed around my wrist.

Her nails dug in.

It was not a love pinch. It was a pinch that said stop, and it said it so plainly that I felt it in my teeth.

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