Page 39

“No.”

The room had begun brightening by degrees. Blue wall wash deepened. The projected stars sharpened behind the museum logo. A server moved the final glass a quarter inch to align it with the knife at table nine.

I should have been checking the greenroom supplies.

I should have been confirming the fire marshal’s access instructions.

Instead I had one shoulder lifted to hold the phone, a pen poised over paper, and sweat cooling beneath a torn linen shirt while a woman somewhere else read questions designed to locate all the ways my work could become a lawsuit.

The broker’s tone changed slightly.

Not warmer. More deliberate.

“Has any claim, suit, disciplinary proceeding, or demand for damages been made against the applicant during the past five years?”

“No.”

The answer arrived without hesitation.

I had practiced it.

No claim had been made against Nair & Co.

Nair & Co. had not existed then.

“Is the applicant aware of any fact, circumstance, error, omission, or incident that might reasonably be expected to result in a claim?”

My pen stopped.

Around me, the gala remained perfect.

A control screen changed from one feed to another. Somebody laughed near registration. The service door opened at the adjusted speed and closed smoothly behind a cart.

Two years earlier, I had answered that question for the first time.

Then again the following year.

No.

The answer was legally clean.

I had never felt clean giving it.

“Ms. Nair?”

“No,” I said.

The word left no mark on the paper.

The broker moved on.

My mother’s name flashed across the phone screen.

Every thought in my head vanished.

My mother did not call at nine on Sunday morning unless she had done the time conversion wrong or something had happened.

I pulled the phone from my shoulder.