Page 98 of Sweet Ruin

12:51:03 — M1: I’ve been instructed to request that you wear a coat. It’s twenty degrees outside, and Mr. Makov would hate for you to be cold. [20°F recorded at KJFK 12:51].

12:51:12 — D. DORSEY: [pause, 5 sec] … What is wrong with you people?

12:51:20 — M1: We’ll see you soon, ma’am.

12:51:23 — [CALL TERMINATED BY ORIGINATING PARTY]

Then come the trains.

The R to Thirty-Sixth.

The D to Columbus Circle.

The 1 uptown.

A walk of two and a half blocks in wind coming off the river hard enough to make my eyes sting and, yes, make me grateful for Kane’s passed-along reminder to wear a warm coat.

The sight of a pretentious woman reprimanding a doorman for accidentally spraying her sweater-clad Chihuahua with his salt spreader reminds me of Vivian and her stupid little rodent of a dog.

I shiver and keep walking.

Predictably, Kane’s block contains one brownstone after the next. An endless row of black railings and window boxes with dead cedar in them. His is on the north side. When I approach, there’s a man in a black jacket standing at the bottom of the steps with his hands folded in front of him.

I stop in front of him. “I’m⁠—”

“Ms. Dorsey,” he says. He bows and steps aside.

In theory, it’s very polite.

In reality, it feels less like being welcomed by an expectant host and more like being processed through the gates of hell.

The door opens before I get to it. The man in the doorway is older and severe-looking, with gray at the temples. He’s wearing a black shirt buttoned to the collar and starched to within an inch of its life.

“May I take your coat, Ms. Dorsey?”

Wordlessly, I hand it over. He pivots on his heel and hangs it in a coat closet that’s bigger than my entire bakery.

The inside of the house makes me feel enormous and grubby. Dark wood paneling on the walls, cold light through the high, thin windows. The floors are so shiny that I can see my chins from below. I decide to keep my eyes fixed firmly ahead.

There’s a staircase with a runner held down by iron rods, and a hallway with a closed door on the left and a smell of roast pork drifting up. Two more men are standing at the far end of the hall looking intently at the opposite wall. Neither of them says a word to me as I go past.

“He’s in the office,” the man who answered the door says.

When we reach a thick black door at the end of a long corridor, he knocks twice, turns the knob, and then steps aside for me to push through myself.

With a deep swallow, I enter.

Kane is behind a desk looking like Lucifer himself. Black shirt, sleeves rolled. Inked forearms, veiny and strong. Rings glinting.

Thick books and strange-looking nautical instruments made of brass line the shelves behind him. A window looks out on a courtyard garden filled with snow and chunky sculptures.

He doesn’t get up. He just looks at me, and I get that feeling I got in the pantry, of being added up, dissected, X-rayed, exposed.

My hands go straight into the pockets of my cardigan and I cross one leg in front of the other automatically. An old habit, like I think I can hide myself if I squeeze all my limbs close enough together.

“Lilah,” Kane breathes. “Welcome.”

“Quite the hospitality squad you’ve got out there,” I say, with a jerk of my chin toward the rest of the house.