“You are full of shit.” His pupils are huge. There’s a vein on his forehead I haven’t seen in days, because he’s been so weirdly nice lately. Now, it’s back, and angrier than ever. “How dare you f*****g lie to me?”
He looks at me a beat longer, the bottle still in his fist. Then his work phone goes off in the pocket of his pajama pants. The ringtone is the old-fashioned brrr-brrr he insists on, like we’re all answering rotary phones in 1956.
Raymond holds up one finger. “Don’t move.”
He pulls the phone out without taking his eyes off me. He looks at the screen. Whatever’s on it makes the vein on his forehead pulse harder.
“What,” he barks into the receiver.
I hear a man’s voice on the other end, garbled but urgent. Raymond’s eyes flick from me, to the floor, to the window, and back to
