Marcus did not speak immediately after the door closed. Elena walked to the kitchen, poured herself a glass of water she did not want, and drank half of it standing at the sink while the Midland skyline blinked beyond the window like a city that had not been informed of her private catastrophe. When she turned, Marcus was sitting on the edge of the couch with his head in his hands, the posture of a man who had rehearsed confession and still found the performance insufficient.
"You will not touch me," Elena said. "You will not reach for my hand. You will answer questions. Then I will decide whether I sleep on this couch or in a hotel or on a train."
"Okay."
"How many times?"
He flinched as if the number itself had temperature. "I don't — maybe eight. Nine. Including the times we only talked."
"Don't count the talking as if talking were innocence. How many times did you sleep with her?"