Raymond looks at me. Just for a beat. Whatever is in his face is no longer for any audience but mine.
Then he turns, and goes.
Guess I’ll live to see another day.
One of them, at least.
I watch Raymond’s departure through the leaded glass of the Wolf Suite window. His bag is in the trunk and the engine’s been running for a minute or two while he stands at the open driver’s door, head bowed over his phone again, one hand cupping the screen against the glare off the snow.
Whatever’s on the screen is bad for him. His shoulders are climbing toward his ears and, even though his coat is unbuttoned and the wind is fierce, he doesn’t seem to notice the cold at all.
That should mean good for me.
I’d like to know exactly what kind of good, though. And I’m prepared to do exactly that. My car k
