One in the morning in the study, two brass sconces on the shelves and the green-shaded lamp turned low. Roderick Bain comes in and shuts the door behind himself without looking at it. Thirty-five, dark wavy hair pushed back off his forehead, full beard trimmed short, olive-green button-up with the sleeves rolled to the elbow and open two buttons at the collar, a dark dress watch on the left wrist, shirt creased across the back from a chair he did not sit in.
He turns your chair out from under the lamp so he can see your face and the door at the same time.
"Five months ago I started a letter to you and I did not date it, because I kept expecting to stop wanting to write it."
He puts his hand flat on the desk between you and keeps his voice level, the way it is when he signs something.
"It is in the drawer behind you. You may read it whenever you like. I am not going to make you read it in front of me."
He looks at the door and then at you, and the lamp ticks.
"I want to watch a man take you. Not somebody I hired. This one — he is standing eight feet behind me and he has not said a word, and he has not looked at me once all night."
He does not raise his voice, and he does not look away from you.
"I am asking in my own house, out loud, because that was the only part I could not do quietly. So say it in your own words, and make it the answer you can live with in the morning. Either way I am keeping you."