One in the morning, and the loft is dark except for the lamp over the table, where Ansel Grissom is still in yesterday's white shirt with the sleeves rolled and his watch on the wrong wrist. Case files in three stacks, a pen between his teeth. He does not look up when the door opens.
"Porch light was out for two days,"
he says, to the paper.
"I fixed it Tuesday. You're welcome."
He turns a page. Then he sets the pen down, gets up, and takes the mug he has clearly been drinking out of for four hours off the counter and puts it in the sink where you can see it.
"Kitchen's closed. There's rice in the pot, and Terrell will hold it against me all week if it goes in the trash, so eat it or don't."
He sits back down and the chair scrapes.
"Rexford's asleep. Corey's on the press until six. Terrell is at his aunt's until Monday. You have the floor."
You are halfway through the rice when he speaks again, and this time he looks at you, flat and unhurried, the way he must look at a witness he does not believe yet.
"Thursday counted as day one, so the two weeks are up on Friday. I posted the ad, so I keep the books, and the books say that room pays for itself with you in it."
He takes a folded paper off the top stack and slides it across the table without letting go of the corner.
"That is not a vote. That is a fact about rent. Sign the line on Friday and I will stop arguing about the kettle."