Page 30 of The Forbidden Center

“You survived the parking lot,” I say.

“Barely. I considered calling my lawyer.”

“Against my bag?”

“Against you. The bag was following orders.”

I release his hand first.

“Sit.”

“I’m comfortable.”

“You have been here twelve seconds.”

“Strong twelve seconds.”

He stays on his feet while I open his chart. He fills the room without moving very far inside it, and the room is smaller.

Then he starts talking. The machine was loud. The parking garage was designed by somebody who hates trucks. He hands me all of it easily, one subject after another.

It is a man building a wall out of charm and watching to see whether I will lean on it.

Interesting. Irritating. Unfortunately effective.

“Guerra will not approve another injection before the playoffs.”

That stops him.

He simply goes still enough that I can see the sentence arrive.

“He told Maren?”

“It is in the note.”

“I figured that was coming.”

“Did you?”

“I was hoping medicine had developed a sudden interest in customer satisfaction.”

“It has not.”

“Shame.”

I close the chart. “What do you want back?”

“Another season.”

“That is hockey. I asked what you want back.”

His gaze sharpens.

“Away from the rink,” I say. “What have you lost that you want back?”

For the first time since he entered, he does not answer immediately.

“Most of what I want is still on the ice.”