Easily, I think, and push out my chair. “I’m going to call my parents,” I say. I tried yesterday and got no answer. This morning, no answer. Before dinner, no answer. It will be late over there, nearly midnight, but I want to talk to my mother.

It’s been way too long.

Chapter Twenty-three

TWENTY-THREE

On Thursday morning, I put on a suit for the first time in more than a year. I had to climb up into the attic for it, forage through the boxes I’d stuffed with my better clothing in the days after Sonia and I were fitted with our counters. I hardly remember what I was doing, only that I had to keep my hands busy at trivial tasks. Otherwise, they would have found their way into walls or windows.

The outfit I choose is beige linen, for the heat. There’s barely time to press out a year’s worth of wrinkles and get my act together before the doorbell rings. Patrick lets the man in, and I recognize him instantly.

It’s Morgan LeBron, from my old department, the all-too-young and completely incapable little shit who took over Lin’s position. No wonder the president agreed so quickly to my conditions; Morgan is an idiot who doesn’t know he’s an idiot. The worst kind.

He steps in and holds out a manicured hand. “Dr. McClellan, I’m so happy to have you on my team. So happy.”

Of course you are.

And it’s his team. Not the team, not our team.

I take his hand. I’ve always had a firm grip for a woman, and shaking hands with Morgan is a bit like shaking with a newborn kitten. “I’m happy, too,” I say. Pussy.

“So,” he says. “Shall we get to business? I’ve got some paperwork for you to sign, and we’ll need to set up a direct deposit to your husband’s account. Whew. Hot in here.”

“The AC’s on the fritz,” I say. “We can go into the back room. There’s a window unit in there.” No sense in asking why my paychecks will go to Patrick’s account; all my money has been sitting there since last year. Words, passports, money—even criminals get two out of three. At least they used to.