Adrian called Clara on Saturday morning.
Not a text. Not a carefully worded message sent through the buffer of a screen. A call — direct, without preamble, the way he had learned from watching Zara that some things deserved to be done without the management of distance.
Clara answered on the second ring, which told him she had been expecting it. Clara was good at anticipating things. It was one of her most consistent qualities, and one that had always made him slightly uneasy in a way he had never previously had the vocabulary to identify.
"Adrian," she said. Warm. Entirely prepared.
"We need to talk," he said. "Can you meet me this morning?"
A brief pause — not hesitation, but the pause of someone calculating. "Of course. The usual place?"
"Somewhere neutral," he said. And heard, in
