Michael takes his phone from his pocket.
Daniel notices at once. “Who are you calling?”
Michael doesn’t look at him. “An attorney friend first,” he says. “Then maybe the sheriff’s office if you keep mistaking this for a debate.”
Daniel’s face drains, then hardens. “This is unbelievable.”
“No,” Michael says. “It’s very believable. That’s the problem.”
For the next twenty minutes the kitchen becomes something halfway between a waiting room and a battlefield.
Michael steps into the living room to make a call. You stay in the kitchen because this room has held too much of your fear already and you are tired of giving it away. Daniel circles the edges of the conversation, alternately silent and muttering, opening cabinets he doesn’t need, pouring coffee he never drinks, looking at the clock as if time itself might rescue him.
At 7:49, Michael comes back with a legal pad from your junk drawer and writes down three names.
