“Thank you,” I say to the earnest young man. “We’ll need a few minutes.”
Megan looks grateful when we’re left in peace.
I take advantage of the silence to say, “I know what it’s like not to have a choice. I know…” I still can’t drag Tarasov’s filthy name across the table. I clear my throat and start again. “I knowhecan be terrifying. You didn’t have a choice. I understand that.”
She flashes just a hint of a grateful smile before she says, “H— He hurt me.”
“I know. He hurt me too.”
“I never would have?—”
“Ladies?” The server’s smile is too broad for the conversation Megan and I are finally having. Plus, his watch is runningfast if he thinks he’s given us thefew minutesI asked for. Nevertheless, he pushes: “Have you decided?”
Megan looks panicked, as if she’s trying to gauge how much I’m willing to splash out on this meal. I say, “I’ll have the Caesar salad. With grilled shrimp.”
“Me too,” Megan whispers.
“Excellent choice,” says the server. “And to drink?”
The yoke is getting on my last nerve, but the best way to make him leave is to finish ordering. “Iced tea,” I say.
Megan barely opens her mouth. “Dewars,” she says. “A double. Neat.”
The server wrestles his surprised expression under control. “Of course,” he says. “Those salads will be up in no time.”
Neither of us speaks until our drinks arrive. As I squeeze lemon into my tea, Megan gulps half her whiskey. She starts to put the glass on the table, but then she shrugs and downs the second shot.
“What I’m trying to say is,” I start again. “Cole thought it was all your fault. But I know I was to blame too. I never should have opened the gate.”
“I’m so grateful you did. I don’t know what Tarasov would have done to me if you hadn’t let us in.”
There. She said it. The shitehawk’s name sits between us like a turd.
I force myself to ask, “Has he come after you?”
She shakes her head, just once, very hard. “He can’t find me.”
“Are you sure about that? He’s very good at computers.”
“Cole is better,” Megan says. She’s a completely different person when she says her brother’s name. Her face shines. Her spine straightens. “He taught me how to stay safe.”
“Good,” I say. But then I think about the weeksIspent hiding from Cole, the days I stayed away from every possible computer. “It’s harder than you think.”
Before she can answer, the server is back with both salads. After arranging the plates with the precision of a designer at Fashion Week, he tops off my untouched iced tea from a silver pitcher. Megan asks for a refill on her Scotch.
We eat in silence. Everything seemed so urgent, immediately after the home invasion. I needed to apologize for my role in that terrible morning—and now I have. But I have nothing left to say to this damaged woman. I can’t imagine why she reached out to me.
She eats like she’s prepping for a marathon, crunching her way through every crouton and spearing every piece of lettuce. Her shrimp disappear like the victims of a magic trick. She scrapes the side of her fork against her plate to collect the last of her dressing before she finishes her second double Scotch.
When her glass is empty, she sits back in her chair. “Kate?” she asks. “Can I call you that?”
“Of course.”
“I have a huge favor to ask.”
I fight the urge to stiffen. “Go on,” I say.
She reaches into the left pocket of her ragged jeans. Whatever she takes out fills the palm of her hand. It’s dirty white, with splotches of orange and black. When she finally unfolds her fingers, I can see it’s a stuffed animal, a calico cat.
