Page 11 of Single Mom's Daddies
“I had to. He flashed his badge in front of staff.”
Max rolls his eyes. “So you served him tea and let him finger the books?”
“No!” Renner snaps, more defensive than smart. “I was careful.”
“Careful would’ve been not opening the door,” Max mutters.
I ignore them both and keep my eyes on Renner. “What exactly did he say?”
Renner presses his palms flat against his thighs, like he’s grounding himself. “He asked about Svet. Specifically. Not just his work. He asked where he was based. How I communicate with him. If I’d ever met him face-to-face. If the pieces were all really from the same hand.”
I don’t respond right away. That’s not curiosity. That’s someone testing for cracks.
Renner fidgets with the snake paperweight again. “He was polite, but firm. Like he already knew some of the answers and was checking for lies.”
Max grins wider. “Then I hope you lied well, boy.”
“I said what we rehearsed. That Svet is private, eccentric, deeply reclusive. That I receive his work through intermediaries, never directly. That I’ve never been to his studio. That I only speak to him via secure dropbox messages.”
I nod again. All true. Just not the whole truth.
Renner looks like he’s waiting for permission to breathe. He doesn’t get it yet. The quiet stretches. I lean back and let the pressure do its job.
Renner eventually breaks. “I didn’t give him anything, Victor. I swear. I stayed vague. Respectfully unhelpful.”
“He take anything?”
“No.”
“Ask about other artists?”
“No.”
“Did he say who he was with?”
Renner hesitates. “He said he was with the Bureau, but…he didn’t show me a card.”
Max’s grin fades slightly.
I let the silence return, then nod once and finally say, “Okay.”
Renner sags.
“But if he comes back,” I add, “you don’t talk to him alone.”
Renner nods so fast it’s almost pathetic.
I glance at Max. “We good to move forward?”
His expression shifts. Something sharper flickers behind his eyes. The game has changed, and I know what’s coming next. Max shifts forward in his chair, elbows resting on his knees. The casualness is fake—it’s the kind of movement he makes when he’s about to say something reckless and already knows I’m going to hate it. “So,” he says slowly, toothpick rolling between his fingers, “how about we keep it simple.”
I don’t respond.
Max looks over at Renner. “He’s looking too close at Svet. Asking the kind of questions that end with subpoenas and black sedans.” Max clicks his tongue. “So, we stop him.”
Renner’s eyes widen. “You mean?—”
Max doesn’t let him finish. “You boys always make it harder than it needs to be. This one? You take him out. Clean. Leave no trace. Problem solved.”
