My best friend’s wife is getting bossy as hell these days. But I sit anyway.
She refills her mug from a kettle on the stove, then pulls down another, fills it, and slides it across to me without asking what I want. It’s tea. Some herbal thing. I don’t drink tea, but I hold it for the warmth.
Jillian leans against the counter across from me. She sips her tea and watches me over the rim of her mug, her green eyes steady, and waits for me to spill my guts.
This is an old reporter trick of hers. I’ve watched her do it to sources. She did it to me the first time Kir brought me to dinner, and I sat there and told her, unprompted, about a case I shouldn’t have been talking about, because the silence got long enough that I filled it.
I’m not going to do it this time.
“So are you gonna talk,”
