Page 29 of His Wall

“You are going to be murdered.”

“Probably not.”

She lifted the dish. “Lasagna. My grandson canceled again. Take it.”

I took it. The glass was warm.

She squinted at me, as usual. “You okay, mija?”

“Just had a long day.”

“You’re too young to be this serious, honey. Eat the lasagna. Tonight.”

She patted my cheek — firm, warm — and went back inside. I stood in the hallway with the dish, then put it in the fridge next to the pad thai and the soup.

I went for my run. Six miles. Across the bridge, down the waterfront, through the park. I counted steps, counted breaths, tried to file Julian Cross under professional hazard and Rafael Torres under closed chapter. By mile three, I’d given up.

I came home sweating, showered, and ate two bites of lasagna standing up so Mrs. Alvarez wouldn’t smell leftovers through the floor. Then I slept badly.

I came into the office at 7:48 a.m. Gray blouse, charcoal trousers, hair pulled tight enough to ache. I looked in the bathroom mirror and tried to see Claire Kent, not the woman who had leaned a quarter-inch toward Julian Cross last night.

“Good morning, Claire.” He was at his desk, the door open, in a navy shirt, sleeves rolled. The grin was small and private.

“Good morning, Mr. Cross.”

I sat down and didn’t look up, but Julian came out, stopped at my desk, and set down his coffee cup. “The Halberg deck. Printed copy?”

“On your desk. Top of the stack.”

“Bring it in?”

I crossed to his door and pulled the file. He held out his hand. I gave him the file. His fingers brushed mine on the handoff — his index finger along my thumb, his hand against mine for half a second longer than necessary.

That was the whole morning. Then he called me in to look at his screen. I stood beside his chair; his arm came up under my elbow, his forearm an inch from my hip. I leaned in. My hip touched his shoulder. He never reached. He just got close enough that I had to decide, and then he waited. A forearm near a hip. A shoulder within reach. The option was always left open.

Later, he stopped behind my chair, put his hand on the back of it, and leaned over my shoulder to read my email. His arm was 3 in. from my neck. I felt the heat without him touching me.

My heart was loud.

“You’re coming to dinner tonight,” he said without looking at me.

“I have plans.”

“Cancel them.”

“Mr. Cross — ”

“Declan’s birthday. The whole team. You’re part of the team. Wear something nice, Claire.” He pushed off and turned toward his office before I could answer.

The restaurant was on Mott Street. Low light, candles, a woman singing Italian. The maitre d’ walked me to a round table at the back. Declan stood up and pulled out the chair beside Julian. “Claire, get in here.”

I wore the only dress I owned — navy, simple at the shoulders, tight at the waist, falling just above the knee. My hair was lower, looser, a few strands pulled down on purpose.

Julian looked at me when I sat down. His eyes went from my face to my collarbone to my hands, then back up. The small private grin stayed. “You came.”

“You ordered me to.”

Declan was at the head, Thea beside him with her hand on his chair. Nolan wore a charcoal sweater, his arm along the back of Soleil’s chair. Soleil was in a yellow dress, with dark curls down her back.