By the end of the evening, my fingers were shaking.
No one saw it from the outside. The suit fit perfectly, the tie was even, and the smile was precise. But under the table, I changed the grip on my glass too often to be attributed to boredom.
I watched her walk over to the bar.
How I stood next to him.
The way I talked to that girl in the silver dress — calmly, evenly, without hysteria, without accusations. I couldn't hear the words, but I could see the way her lips moved, the way she gripped the napkin, the way George's smile thinned.
She didn't pull it out by the hair. I didn't go for his throat. She did exactly what I didn't expect: she played my game. For preemptive use. Cold. Addressable.
And it scared me more than if she'd hit him with a glass.
"She's different," Robert said
