“He wants to negotiate,” Cloe said. “After everything he did. He wants to sit across a table and talk terms.”
It was ten past ten. She was still at the kitchen table, the tea cold in front of her, Ruth’s message on the screen. She had read it four times and each time the same thing happened. Not relief. Not triumph. Something colder and more careful than either.
“What are your instincts,” Ruth said.
“My instincts say he’s out of moves and he knows it and this is the last thing he has.” She pressed her fingers against the table. “My instincts also say Marshall does not negotiate unless he thinks he can still win something.”
“That’s exactly right,” Ruth said. “He’s going to try to attach conditions. Something that limits what you can do with Peter’s documents. Something that protects San
