Chapter 22: Benton's Tea

Philip asked for Iris at dawn.

He had spent the night in a holding cell in his ruined tuxedo, and by morning the detective said he had cried himself hoarse.

"He won't talk to his lawyer," the detective said, in the corridor outside the interview room. "He says he'll only talk to you."

"No," said Dane.

He had come in his own clothes, with a bandage on his knuckles, and he stood three feet behind Iris's shoulder.

"I want to hear him," Iris said.

"Then I'm in the room."

"You're behind the glass."

His jaw worked, and then he nodded.

Odette was already on the other side of the glass.

She had walked in on her cane at six in the morning and demanded a chair.

Iris went in alone and sat across the steel table.

Philip looked up.

His hair was flat, his eyes were swollen, and a red scrape ran across one cheek where he had hit the floor.

For a moment she saw the man she had said yes to, and it was the worst moment of the night.

"Iris," he said. "I loved you. You have to believe that."

"No, I don't."

"I did."

"You carried me up the stairs," she said. "You turned out the lamp."

He covered his face with both hands.

"Mom said you'd sleep," he said, through his fingers. "She said it would only be a scandal. Nobody was supposed to"

"Don't."

"I didn't know he'd hurt you."

"You knew he was in the bed, and you knew I couldn't move." Iris kept her voice quiet. "I want to hear about my father."

Philip went very still.

Through the glass, she knew Odette had stopped breathing.

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