Page 9 of A Break in Communications

“You invite yourself into my personal life, you see my personal life.”

“Big fan?”

“I’m a big fan of you closing your mouth. It’s easy to remember.”

She smiled wider. “Big Sherlock fan growing up?”

I felt my face prickle, turning away. “You have three more questions allotted tonight. Is that one of the ones you want to ask?”

“No, ma’am. I already know the answer from seeing you blush. An espresso for me, please.”

“I didn’t offer.”

“I didn’t ask.” She paused. “Wouldn’t want to use up one of my three questions, after all.”

I laughed.

Why the hell did I laugh? I didn’t think anything had ever been so mortifying in my life. I wasn’t laughing atLucy Masters’jokes. How humiliating was that? “God, I wish you’d leave,” I said, trying to cover it up like I was just laughingather, and I set about making her an espresso. For whatever God-forsaken reason. “Ethiopian or Guatemalan? Do you even know what that means?”

“So you’re a coffee connoisseur, Preston. I had no idea. Which one is your favorite?”

I liked the Ethiopian and didn’t want her to drink it, so I said, “Guatemalan.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to use up your favorite. Ethiopian, then, please.”

Son of a bitch. “You’re down to two questions, by the way.”

“Dammit. I’ll have to be more careful.”

Maybe making her an espresso was worth it.

I made myself a macchiato and an espresso for her, both with the Ethiopian coffee beans, and we sat down to where she said, “Tell me what files you have on Gould.”

Oh, she was playing it like that, was she? I opened my laptop, pointedly not looking at her. “That’s not how we ask nicely, is it?”

“No, it isn’t. Now tell me.”

Fine. I could play it like that. “All kinds of files.”

“Name the ones you’ve looked at.”

“No thank you.”

She smiled wider. “If you don’t, I’m going to move closer to you every time I ask. Do you want me on your lap this time, Preston?”

I sipped my coffee lightly, suppressing a smile. “Not particularly. One question left, Masters.”

“Ah, Christ.” She rubbed her forehead, laughing. “You’re not making this easy for me.”

“Mm-hm. Do you realize I don’t want you here?”

“No. I thought you loved me. Name the files we have on Gould.”

We went long enough like that, me dodging everything I could, that I was drooping with sleep heavy in my eyes by the time I gave up, and I rattled off a nominal few things from the documents—info from deep dives on Matthew Gould and what might have helped win him over, as well as some details around his work the last few months and what he might feel like was going above and beyond—and I finally shut my laptop at the end of the night, standing up feeling like I was made of lead.

“I’m going to bed,” I said, covering a yawn. “There’s not a lot of food in the apartment. Go out if you want something to eat, and don’t come back.”

She shut her laptop, raising her eyebrows at me. “You haven’t eaten since lunch.”

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