Page 15 of The Dragon 1
“It has sentimental value.”
“Why?”
“My father gave it to me when I was ten.”
“Was he a writer too?”
“No. He was a judge.”
A few of the men by the wall shifted.
Mr. Sato studied me. “Wasa judge. Your father isn’t a judge anymore?”
“He isn’t.”
“Retired?”
“Something like that.”
“Ms. Palmer, I likeclearanswers.”
I sighed. “He lost his position.”
The topic of my father always hit like old bruises—faded but tender when touched.
“Why did he lose his position?”
“No disrespect, Mr. Sato, but I amonlyhere to observe your soapland. Not breakdown my family history. I don’t want to cause any problems or—”
“An American judge’s daughter with a tape recorder asking questions in the most dangerous part of Tokyo—”
“Hold up. What I’m doing right now has nothing to do with my father in any way. I don’t even talk to him—”
“Why not?”
I held out my hand. “What?”
“Why not?”
“Because. . .we just don’t talk,” I let out a long breath. “Mr. Sato, respectfully, can I observe your business? If not, I will leave immediately.”
“But either way you don’t want to talk about your father?”
“I don’t think it’s necessary.”
That made him laugh.
God. Even his laugh is lethal.
It wasn’t loud or unkind. But it damn sure slithered under my skin and settled there, readying itself to explode.
He leaned in a hair’s breadth closer.
No further contact just yet.
But definitely the threat of it.
The possibility.
