Rebecca POV
He talked for forty-three minutes.
I know this because I watched the clock on the kitchen wall, not obviously, not in the way of someone tracking time impatiently, but in the specific way you clock something when you understand that the details matter. Forty-three minutes of Edmund Jones talking about his week, his deals, his partners, his frustrations, the particular inefficiency of a man named Garfield who apparently required black cod and a restaurant with ambiance before he could make a decision.
I listened to every word.
I had always been a good listener. Edmund had told me this early in the marriage, had said it warmly, as a compliment, the observation of a man who appreciated having a genuinely attentive audience. I had taken it as such. I had never considered, in
