The word run. The word company. The context it implied that didn't fit with Victoria Wells vague tech worker from Atlanta. Marcus looked at her steadily. What kind of company?
He said I told you software business. How big? He said. The question was quiet, unhurried, but pointed. The silence between them stretched.
She could have kept it going. She was good at misdirection. She could have said something that was technically true and substantively misleading and steered the conversation somewhere else, and he probably would have let her because he was the kind of man who gave people the room they asked for. "She didn't do that. Bigger than I said," she said.
Marcus looked at her. Something was working behind his eyes assembling. Processing. How much bigger? He said.
She put her tea down on the coffee table. She looked at her hands for a moment. Then she looked up at him. My company is called Hail Technology Solutions. She said, "We're publicly traded.
I took us public four years ago. Last year's revenue was close to I know that company," Marcus said. She stopped. My accountant mentioned them. When I was looking at payroll software, he looked at her carefully.
I think the CEO's name is on their website. The weight of it settled over both of them. Victoria Hail, he said. Not a question, she held his gaze. Yes.
Marcus sat down his own mug. He leaned back. He looked at the ceiling for a long moment. 2 3 4 seconds. And when he brought his eyes back to her, they were different.
Not cold, not angry. Something more complicated. Victoria Wells, he said. My mother's maiden name and the car. The car runs fine, she said.