David nods, but doesn’t say anything else.
He presses the console button again, lowering the screen, and I get the sense that he wants to wait until we’re both at his. So, I don’t ask any questions. Yet.
Instead, I use the drive to think of the questions I really want an answer to, and by the time he’s opening his front door, I have a list in my head.
David, of course, lives in a penthouse apartment. I walk into it in astonishment, my brain desperately trying to process the size, the luxury of it, the paintings, the marble and oak surfaces.
I vaguely hear him rattling off some information as he puts my bags by the door – security cameras, guards, maid schedules, where the kitchen is, but I’m not really listening. I’m too busy walking through, my hands running over the surfaces that pro
