Page 22 of Silent Schemes

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She sits at the next stool over.

Not too close. Not too far.

“You drinking alone, or waiting for someone?” Her voice is a scalpel. It slices right to the bone.

“I was hoping for company,” I say. “Didn’t think you’d show.”

She takes the champagne bottle from the ice bucket, checks the label, then pops it.

The sound is gentle.

Controlled.

She pours two flutes, never breaking eye contact.

She hands me one.

I dip my finger, taste.

She does the same.

She sips, watching me over the rim. “Your bartender is a little green.”

“Experienced ones are harder to bribe.”

She smiles, a real one this time. “Or too scared.”

I shrug. “No one in this room is scared tonight.”

She sets the glass down, spins it once, lets the light catch the bubbles. “Your father wants me dead,” I say.

No need to raise my voice.

She leans in, almost imperceptible. “Most of Vancouver wants you dead.”

I swirl my drink. “But he sent you.”

There’s a flicker in her eyes.

Not surprise.

More like confirmation.

She’s not here for small talk.

“He thinks you’re slipping,” she says.

“He’s wrong.”

She raises her flute. “To being wrong.”

The toast is hollow, but she drinks anyway.

I let the champagne burn down my throat.

It’s one of the best, but the stuff always tasted like shit to me.

“You watched me, watching you from that roof,” she says.

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