She poured, handed me the glass, and let her fingertips linger against mine as she passed it off. The contact was deliberate. She watched my face for a reaction. I gave her none.
We stood there, two feet apart, each with a glass and an arsenal of words. For a moment, nothing happened but the sound of her swallow and the tick of an analog clock on the mantle.
“So,” she said, “you’re here. You want to tell me why?”
I sipped, letting the burn slide down my throat before answering. “You wanted a follow-up. I thought in person would be less traceable.”
She moved to the couch but didn’t sit; she just leaned one hip against the armrest, body angled toward the exit. “You could’ve picked a better time.”
“Could’ve picked a better judge,” I said.
That broke the tension for a split second. She actually laughed, low and sharp, before schooling her features again. “You’re an asshole, Wallace.”
“People keep saying that.”
She let her gaze linger on my scar, then dropped to my hands. “Are you carrying?”
I nodded.
She considered, then pointed to a small safe bolted to the wall under the bar cart. “Standard rule in this house. Firearms in the box.”
I set my glass down, unholstered, and palmed the weapon into the safe without protest. She watched me the whole time, like a scientist observing a new animal in the wild.
“Why the security?” I asked, keeping my voice just loud enough to register as non-threatening.
“You already know,” she said. “They teach you about escalation in the Corps?”
“Marines, not the Army,” I corrected. “But it’s the same concept. You expect trouble?”
“I expect someone to overplay their hand. Sometimes it’s you.” Her eyes narrowed. She loved to play games.
We stood there for another minute, drinks halfway done, neither one willing to be the first to break posture.
I let my gaze wander around the room. The photos told a different story than from the judge’s bench. There was a series of family gatherings, all men in ill-fitting suits, women clustered around a matriarch who looked like she could break up a knife fight with a flick of her wrist. Bellini featured in almost every one, always near the center, always in a different version of the same navy dress. There were medals and plaques from a dozen civic organizations. On a lower shelf, tucked behind a row of battered hardbacks, was a single music box shaped like a grand piano. I recognized the motif—the kind sold in Little Italy gift shops back east.
“You still play?” I asked, nodding to the music box.
She followed my gaze. For the first time all night, her expression softened. “Not in years,” she said. “Too many memories attached. My mother used to make me practice scales before breakfast.”
“Same with me and the heavy bag. Discipline first, everything else after.”
She moved to refill her glass, and I watched as her hand trembled slightly as she poured. The sight made my chest feel tight in a way that wasn’t from adrenaline or fear.
“Why’d you really come?” she asked, her voice lower now, almost a whisper.
I weighed my words. “Wanted to see if you were as tough off the bench as on it.”
“And?”
I took another sip. “You’re harder to read, but easier to trust.”
She tilted her head. “Trust is a dangerous word in my line of work.”
“Same in mine.”
The clock ticked, and we stood there, two animals on the edge of instinct, neither willing to make the first move. She closed the space between us, her body stopping just inside my reach. “I know what you’re thinking,” she said.
“Doubt it,” I replied.
