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“Yes.”
Click. Dolarhyde, the Dragon rampant, muscles flexed and tail tattoo above the Jacobis’ bed. “Do you see?”
“Yes.”
Click. Mrs. Jacobi waiting. “Do you see?”
“Yes.”
Click. Mrs. Jacobi after. “Do you see?”
“Yes.”
Click. The Dragon rampant. “Do you see?”
“Yes.”
Click. Mrs. Leeds waiting, her husband slack beside her. “Do you see?”
“Yes.”
Click. Mrs. Leeds after, harlequined with blood. “Do you see?”
“Yes.”
Click. Freddy Lounds, a copy of a Tattler photograph. “Do you see?”
“Oh God.”
“Do you see?”
“Oh my God.” The words drawn out, as a child speaks crying.
“Do you see?”
“Please no.”
“No what?”
“Not me.”
“No what? You’re a man, Mr. Lounds. Are you a man?”
“Yes.”
“Do you imply that I’m some kind of queer?”
“God no.”
“Are you a queer, Mr. Lounds?”
“No.”
“Are you going to write more lies about me, Mr. Lounds?”
“Oh no, no.”
“Why did you write lies, Mr. Lounds?”
