Leonardo came straight from the meeting.
She'd sent one text: Come to the flat when you can. Not urgent. But today.
He'd texted back within minutes: Leaving in an hour.
He read the letter at the kitchen table. She made coffee and stood at the window and let him read it without watching him, because the reading required privacy even in company. She could hear the pages turning. She could hear him go still at the third page the way she'd gone still, and then she heard nothing for a long time.
When he finally put it down she turned around.
He was looking at the window. Not at her. At the window, or at something past it, the particular way of looking that meant inward.
She sat down across from him.
They were quiet for a moment.
"She planned it," he said.
"Yes."
"The whole thing. From
