PHOENIX IN PRADA
— NATHALIE —
James asked on a Sunday morning.
It wasn't a grand interrogation. There were no bright lights, no stenographers, and zero dramatic pauses for effect. He asked the way he did most things — quietly, directly, with the terrifying, unhurried weight of a man who had already reached a conclusion and was just waiting for the paperwork to catch up.
We were in the kitchen. I was making coffee badly. I had never actually been taught how to make coffee — in my old life I had an automated espresso machine that cost more than a Honda, and the original Clara had always had a staff of three to ensure her caffeine reached her at precisely 180 degrees. I had been improvising for weeks with mixed, occasionally sludge-like results.
James was watching me from the doorway,
