Page 188 of Callan

Nothing out of the ordinary.

“Where do you usually live?” she asks.

The room is silent for a few good moments.

“I live here a few days a week. Once in a while I spend time in Long Island.”

“So you’re living here on a regular basis?” she asks incredulously.

I nod.

“Yes, I do. I sleep here when I work.”

Her eyebrows shoot up.

“You work?” she murmurs.

I laugh.

“Of course I do. What do you think I’m doing for money?”

Her cheeks go aflame.

“What kind of work do you do?”

“I own a business. More than one, actually.”

She tilts her head to the side.

“You don’t believe me?” I say, amused.

“No, no. Of course I do,” she says, not believing me.

She shifts her focus to her dessert.

“What kind of companies do you own?” she murmurs before putting more food in her mouth.

“A construction company. A transportation company. And a few restaurants and hotels.”

She swallows hard and looks at me like she’s stubbed her toe.

Impressed and overwhelmed at the same time––not exactly what I’ve aimed for.

“That explains this,” she says, still having food in her mouth while gesturing with her dessert spoon to the walls.

“Pretty much,” I say dryly, ready to put an end to this particular conversation.

“What about…?” she goes on, and I see the question in her eyes.

What about the man I shot tonight?

“I think we only have a few moments left before midnight,” I say, checking the time on my watch and trying to derail our conversation and her train of thought.

“Champagne?” I say, rising out of my chair and using this opportunity to turn my back to her so she doesn’t see my face.

“Yes, sure.”

Sadness glimmers in her voice.

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