He knew because he checked his phone at minute 4, minute 9, minute 15, minute 22. He was not a man who checked his phone constantly. He was a man who had run out of things to do with his hands. The door opened. Isabelle walked out.
He searched her face. She was composed, controlled. The jaw-set, eyes-forward composure of a woman who has just done something hard and has not yet decided what she thinks about how it went. She sat down next to him. "How was it? " he asked.
"She went off book," Isabelle said quietly. "Immediately. First question off the standard sheet. " "What did she ask? " Isabelle was quiet for a moment. "She asked what I love about you. " The words settled over him. "What did you say? " he said carefully.
She looked at the folder in her lap. "I told her that you leave bread on the counter before you leave for a shoot because you know I like it and you don't make it into a thing. I told her that when Nadia has nightmares, you're always there, but sometimes I'm there first and you never make me feel like I'm overstepping. I told her She stopped. Swallowed.
"I told her that you wrote three words on a sticky note on a morning when everything felt impossible and that three words were exactly enough. " He didn't move. "She didn't react," Isabelle said. "She just wrote something down and moved to the next question. " "Was that good, the not reacting? " "I have no idea. " She pressed her hands flat on the folder. "Your turn. " The clerk appeared in the doorway. "Mr.
Marcus? " He stood. He walked across the waiting room and through the door and into a small office with a desk and two chairs and a woman who looked about 55 with close-cut gray hair and reading glasses pushed up on her forehead and the particular energy of someone who has sat across from a thousand people and learned to read the difference between what they say and what they mean. Her name, according to the placard on her desk, was Officer Patricia Webb. She did not smile when he sat down. She did not frown, either.
She looked at him the way a person looks at a document they are deciding how to read carefully without prejudice, without conclusion. "Mr. Marcus," she said. "Thank you for coming in. " "Of course. " She opened a file, looked at it briefly, looked at him. "I'm going to ask you some questions about your marriage and your relationship.
You can answer however feels natural. There are no trick questions. " She paused. "The most useful thing you can do is be honest. " Something in him settled when she said that. Like the word itself was permission for the thing he had already decided to do. "Understood," he said.
She looked at the file. "How did you and Isabel meet? " "She moved in across the hall. October, about two and a half years ago. She was moving boxes. I knocked and offered to help. " "And how did the relationship develop from there? " He took a breath.
"Slowly. We were neighbors first. We looked out for each other. I have a daughter, Nadia. She's eight now.