"Eric," she said, her voice a low, cultured alto, the same voice from the text message. "I was wondering if you'd come."
"I'm here," I said, my voice a quiet, steady murmur as I took the seat opposite her. The chair was hard, unforgiving. "You wanted to see me."
"I did," she said, her voice a low, quiet purr. She gestured to the cup of coffee in front of me. "I took the liberty of ordering for you. Black, no sugar. A man of simple, direct tastes."
I didn't touch the coffee. "You know a lot about me."
"I know enough," she countered, her gaze unwavering. "I know about your father. I know about Charles. I know you're living in his house, sleeping in his bed, and helping him build cages for other people. That's a very specific kind of hell, Eric. One I'm familiar with."
The directness was a weapon, a way to throw me off balance. But I had come here for answers, not for a battle of wits. "The code in the drive. The 'Venetian Blind.' That was his."
