“I’m not reading it tonight,” Cloe said.
Mac looked at her across the table.
“Okay,” he said.
Dave looked at both of them. He had seen the phone. He had made the calculation that something had arrived that was not routine and had filed it correctly as not his to ask about and had gone back to his homework.
She put the phone face down.
She looked at the table. At her family in the evening light.
She thought about what she had said in the south room three weeks ago. No more crisis. The ordinary life. That was what she had asked for and she had meant it and she was going to honour it, which meant that an email from a journalist who was not Daniel Frost was going to wait until morning.
“I’m going to read it tomorrow,” she said to Mac.
He nodded once.
They finished dinner.
Dave showed
