Good night. She hung up. Marcus sat on the edge of his bed with the phone in his hand and felt something he hadn't felt in 11 weeks. Not hope exactly, not relief. Something more like the feeling you get when an engine you've been listening to suddenly starts running at the right pitch, like something had clicked into alignment that had been off for a long time.
He set his phone on the nightstand, lay back, stared at the ceiling. "Okay," he said to the empty room. Just that just okay because sometimes that was enough. He arrived on Monday at 9:52. The building was the kind that doesn't announce itself.
No flashy sign, no grand lobby designed to impress, just a clean, well-maintained office building on Peach Tree that radiated the particular confidence of something that didn't need to try. The receptionist looked at him when he walked in. A precise look, not unfriendly, but assessing. And before he could give his name, she said, "Mr. Reed, Mrs.
Bennett is ready for you. Third floor. " She said it like she'd been expecting him specifically. Which meant Vivien had told her, which meant Viven had been more certain he'd call than he'd been himself. Marcus filed that away as he got into the elevator. The third floor was quiet and ordered.
Real wood on the surfaces that mattered, nothing ostentatious, everything in its place. A woman outside a closed office door, late 40s reading glasses. The particular alertness of someone who managed another person's time for a living, looked up and said, "She's on a call. " 3 minutes. Marcus nodded and stood. I didn't sit in the waiting chair.
He stood hands clasped loosely in front of him and looked at the wall where photographs hung property developments, completed projects, community ribbon cutings, a before and after series of a neighborhood he recognized. He'd done work in that neighborhood. Had friends there. He was still looking at the photographs when the office door opened. Mr.
Reed Vivien stood in the doorway, different from Friday night. No pearls, no evening wear. She was in a dark suit, precise and professional. Her silver hair the same, but the context entirely different. She looked at the photographs.
You know those properties? I know that neighborhood, he said. I worked in it. She absorbed that. Come in.
Her office was what Marcus expected. Ordered deliberate, nothing superfluous. She sat behind a desk that had papers on it in specific arrangements, not messy, but worked in. She gestured to the chair across from her. He sat.
She looked at him for a moment without speaking. The way she'd looked at him Friday night, but more direct now, more open. Like the social context of the restaurant had required a certain performance, and this room didn't. Tell me about the 9 years, she said. Marcus paused.