Lewis

Late that night…

She’s like a dog with a bone. The lights above the kitchen island feel like heat lamps under her squinted eyes.

“I don’t understand why you will not tell me,” she continues. “It’s not like I know her or will ever bump into her. Perhaps telling me will help you move on once and for all.” She leans back on her stool, arms folded across her chest, one eyebrow raised in my direction.

“Moonlighting with the CIA, are you?” I ask. ...