Both Owen and Jonathan had little use for people. But unlike Owen, Jonathan had to work at it. He fought influence—not by his nature, but by his insistence. He was a self-made man on his own island, but not abandoned there. Not stranded. No. He’d hacked it free of the mainland himself. But sometimes he felt bad about it. Clearly, it made Jonathan resentful to feel anything.

Owen’s voice went mild. “So fucking what? The little people, Jonathan, they count. Take yours, for instance. Donna. Carly. I know their names. I wouldn’t call them Dana and Carrie. I’ve met them. Talked with them. I’ve seen them in their own environment. It would be unwise of me not to have paid attention. It would also be dismissive. They don’t deserve that. According to YouTube, they’ve been through a lot lately. And they don’t even know what’s at stake, do they?”

“Are you threatening my family?”

“Would that make it easier for you?”

“Would that make what easier for me?” The warning bell clanging in Jonathan’s head showed, rising into the expression on his face.

“Hmmm.” A sincere hmmm was always a tricky pitch for the batter. “I wasn’t threatening them. I don’t pick on little girls or their”—Owen raised his water glass in a mock toast—“or their superhot mothers. Are you worried that I was threatening them? Or were you hoping for it? You know, looking at you, I’m not sure you weren’t doing just exactly that.”

“Fuck you.”

“That’s fair.”

Jonathan scratched his hands through his hair. “This is getting out of hand. I have the painting that your employers might want, even though you think it’s stupid. I know the price needs to be renegotiated because of what happened. I get that. But the—I’ll admit—impulsive down payment I took was with my head ringing from goddamned gunfire, I’d like to remind everyone. But all this”—Jonathan raked the air back and forth over the table between them—“this isn’t necessary. There’s no reason for it.”

“You forgot to mention that Marcelline is dead in your little recap of history.” Owen watched him closely. Jonathan had spoken of her only in the past tense. But would he flinch, a truth reflex, when Owen did?

Jonathan sniffed, a flicker of a sneer as he looked down at the tabletop. “You’re right. I didn’t mention it. I forgot. But bringing that up seems to be your part-time job, not mine. It’s been four years. Maybe get another hobby.”

There it was, that hostile pout. Jonathan didn’t care that she was dead. But he hated that he was supposed to. According to his story, Marcelline got only what she’d deserved. And why would he think he was supposed to feel anything about that? Because he knew better. The double cross was his.