The argument happened on a Saturday.
I didn't witness it. I wasn't there. I found out about it the way I found out about most things that happened in the Calloway orbit — from Jade, who called at nine in the evening with the specific breathless quality of someone who had been sitting with something for several hours and had finally decided the sitting had gone on long enough.
"They had a fight," she said. "A real one. Not a disagreement — a fight."
I was at home. August evening, the windows open, the city coming in warm and loud and alive. I had been reading — actually reading this time, not holding a book while thinking about other things — and the call had pulled me out of the first genuinely absorbed hour I'd had in weeks.
"What happened?" I said carefully.
"I don't know all of it.
