Sienna asked him about it the next morning.
Not the whole thing at once — she’d learned, with Dean, to ask one question at a time. Too many made him careful; one made him honest.
“How old were you when you found out what Hank was doing?” she said.
They were walking the concourse — a habit they’d developed over the last few weeks, the one stretch of the building long enough for real conversation and public enough to keep the rules intact. Shoulder to shoulder, not quite touching.
“Twenty-four,” he said. “I found the paperwork for Charlie’s ice-time fund. It was in a box of equipment-receipt stuff Hank’s assistant sent over — wrong envelope, probably, Hank’s filing system was famously abstract.” He kept walking. “I confronted him. He didn’t apologize. He just looked at me and said, your
