February 9
I’d gasp, but I can’t breathe. I’d scream, but I can’t speak. I’d turn away, but I can’t blink. I’d run, but I can’t move.
“…Sixty, eighty. Here we go,” Reynolds says, pressing four twenty-dollar bills into my hand. He closes his coat, ending my transfixion. “Sorry, I guess my shirt’s a little dirty. It’s laundry day, you see.”
“Yeah,” I say, regaining my composure. “Yeah. Just fine. I should put a load in myself.”
“Well, you’ll have plenty of time to do it, then,” he says, grinning. “Anyway, I’ll just see myself out, then. You won’t forget your promise?”
“I won’t,” I say. I sure as hell won’t forget it. I just won’t honor it, either.
“Thank you, Miss Minervudottir…” he says, trailing off into that half-smirk again. “Thank you for your… time.”
“No problem,” I say. “I’ll call if anything else comes up.”
“You’ll– oh, the card,” he says. “Yes. Well, I’ll look forward to it. Until then.”
I stand at the door for a good long while after he’s gone, the money crumpled in my left fist. I can’t stand him, but now that he’s gone, I get the odd feeling he wound up telling me far more than he wanted to. And what he didn’t tell me, I saw anyway.
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