Page 95 of Don't Tell

I open it.

The email is a paragraph and a half.

Suzanne, I came across your work last week through the studio-night archive at the Old Mission space. I have been thinking about the lobby drawings since. I run a small gallery in Oakland. I won't bore you with the pitch in anemail. I'd love to meet whenever you have the time. Coffee on me. No pressure, no agenda. The number below is good. Reach out when you can. — Iris.

A phone number. Nothing else.

"Suz."

"Yeah."

"This was a week ago."

"I know."

"You were sitting on this for a week and didn't tell me."

"I didn't see it."

"How did you not see it."

"Renée, I don't know."

She is quiet for a beat. "Call her."

"Now?"

"Today. Not now."

"Okay."

"Suz."

"I will. I'll call her this afternoon. I promise."

She closes the laptop and does not push.

She accepts this as progress and goes to the sink and starts on the dishes. I sit at the table with my hand on the closed lid of the laptop and the small unfamiliar feeling of being seen by a person who does not know who Cade Nightingale is.

I call Adrian an hour later.

I sit on the edge of the guest bed, take a breath, and dial.

He picks up on the second ring.

"Suzanne, I'm so glad to hear from you. I was —"

"Adrian, I'm calling to tell you I'm not signing."

He is quiet for one beat. "I see. Is there something I can address?"

"No. It isn't about the offer. The offer was generous. It was, in fact, the most generous offer I have had in my professionallife, which I think you knew when you made it. I'm not signing because I now know you were never going to be my rep. You were using me to get to Cade. Playing games with my art for your revenge."

He is quiet.

The silence is long.

When he speaks, his voice is different. The smoothness is still there. The temperature underneath it has dropped.