By the time I’ve finished telling Sam everything, we’ve gone through half a bottle of wine and finished our plates, crampy stomach be damned.
Sam’s not the type to jump to conclusions. Nor is he easily excitable. From what I’ve observed thus far anyway. Maybe it’s the result of three decades spent on the trading floor day in and day out — the tension, the commotion — but he calmly takes time to digest the information I’ve given him while, every now and again nodding to himself or c*****g his head over one shoulder or the other as if carrying on an internal dialogue.
“Where is Mike now?” he asks.
“Home with Robyn and Molly.”
“And he doesn’t seem the least bit disturbed by what he’s been seeing and hearing out by the cornfield?”
“You mean has he been wetting the bed or anything like t
