VINCENT
Martha was in the living room. She saw me come down the stairs and her face gave nothing away. Not a flicker. Not a glance. Whatever she’d seen an hour ago, she’d sealed it behind a mask of professional composure that I might have admired if I weren’t the man she’d caught with his c**k in his daughter’s mouth.
Angel had gone back to sleep and curled up in my sheets. Naked. Satisfied. I’d left her looking like something between an angel and a crime scene.
Martha handed me my morning coffee. Her hands were steady. Her voice was even. If she was thinking about what she’d walked into, she gave no indication. But I knew Martha. I’d known her since I was a boy. That woman processed everything and expressed nothing until she was ready.
She was not ready. And I wasn’t going to bring i
