ing any of it, turning over the two words Cloe Vane had said to him. Not yet. He had hired hundreds of people over the course of his career. He had sat across from nervous candidates and overc

le. As if it were not the most loaded thing Cloe had been asked to do since she signed her name on a marriage certificate at twenty-three. "If I tell him, I lose the job." "If Sandra tells him her version, you lose the job and your reputation." Cloe was quiet. "Dave is at mine tonight," Ada said. "Go to dinner. Tell the truth. Whatever happens after that is not something you can control, so stop trying to." She hung up before Cloe could argue. Ada had a habit of doing that. * * * Crest was the kind of restaurant that did not put prices on the menu. Cloe had walked past it before but never inside. Mac was already at the table when she arrived, jacket off, sleeves rolled, a glass of water in front of him and a stillness about him that she was beginning to recognise as simply how he existed in the world. He stood when he saw her. She noted that and told herself it did not matter. They ordered. He did not ask her what she wanted to drink. He asked what she liked and then ordered based on that, which was a small thing and should not have meant anything and meant something anyway. For ten minutes they talked about work. The Alcott account. The restructured inbox. She had caught a double-booking in his schedule that Paul had missed and he brought it up with something that was almost approval. She was almost relaxed. Then he set his glass down and looked at her. "My sister has been married for six months," he said. "Overseas ceremony. Her husband's name is Marshall Vane." The restaurant noise continued around them. Soft music. Other people's conversations. Cloe looked at Mac Harlow across the table and understood that he already knew. Not everything. But enough. Sandra had told him something before she left the building and he had sat on it all afternoon and now he was watching her face to see if she would lie to him. She was not going to lie to him. "Marshall Vane," she said carefully, "is also my husband. We've been married for nine years. I received the divorce papers three days ago." Mac did not move. His expression did not change. But something behind his eyes did, something seismic and contained, the way a building absorbs impact before the cracks show. "You knew," he said. "When I told you my name on that pavement. You already knew who I was." "I knew who Sandra was," she said. "Not you. Not until you said your name." "And you came to the interview anyway." "I have a son with a medical condition and no income. Yes. I came anyway." He was quiet for a long moment. She did n