Exiled (A Madame X Novel)
“You stand up, cross the room with quick, angry strides, pour a measure of scotch from the decanter. Down it in a single swallow. Pour; swallow. You repeat this twice more, until you must lean on the table, glass under your palm, breathing hard. A third of the contents of the decanter are now in your belly.
“And that’s the story of Jakob Kasparek.” The storyteller’s cadence is gone. The distant, vacant expression is gone. The mask is back in place. “Anything else you wish to know?”
“Where is Logan?”
You do not even bother to glance at me. “The morgue, I would presume.”
“I don’t believe you.”
You shrug. “No matter to me whether you believe it or not. He’s dead and you’re mine.”
“I am not yours.”
You gesture at the door. “Then leave.”
I am at the door in three strides.
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