We established the rules on the third evening.

Not formally. The way things get established when two people are sharing a space and the edges need to be defined.

He worked late. I worked late. At nine-fifteen we both appeared in the kitchen at the same time, each looking for something to eat, and he looked at the state of the kitchen — which I'd reorganized slightly, because the original organization made no functional sense — and said: "You moved things."

"The spices were arranged alphabetically," I said. "I reorganized by frequency of use."

He looked at the spice rack.

"Who told you what I use frequently?"

"Mrs. Park," I said. "And observation. The cumin was nearly empty and the tarragon was sealed."

He looked at me.

"Don't reorganize without telling me," he said.

"I'll tell you I reorganized," I said. "I won't ask permission."

Something in his expression did a thing — not quite amusement, closer to recalibration.

"Fine," he said.

I made eggs. He made toast, which told me he was capable of basic functions and simply chose not to employ them.

We ate at the kitchen island in silence that was, after three days, no longer entirely uncomfortable.

"The Frankfurt call," I said.

"Rescheduled."

"I rescheduled it to Thursday. You said to clear Thursday."

"I said I'd let you know what for."

"You didn't let me know. The Frankfurt window closes Thursday. I made a judgment call."

He looked at his toast.

"Thursday is fine," he said.

"Also," I said, "your three o'clock tomorrow is with Meridian Partners, which is connected to the Cayman entity through two intermediaries. I flagged it."

He set down the toast.

"You found that today," he said.

"This afternoon," I said. "Do you want me to cancel it?"

"No," he said. "I want you to be in the room."

I looked at him.

"In the room," I said.

"As my assistant," he said. "Note-taking. Standard arrangement."

"I'm an accountant, not an assistant."

"Right now you're both," he said. "That was the arrangement."

I looked at my eggs.

"Mr. Thorne," I said.

"Yes."

"If Croft is at that meeting and he recognizes me—"

"He won't connect you to the investigation," he said. "As far as he knows, you're here because of your father's debt."

"Which he probably engineered."

"Which makes him confident you're neutralized," he said. "That confidence is useful."

I thought about that.

"You're using me as a blind," I said.

"I'm using the situation," he said. "You're choosing to be in it."

"I chose the arrangement that kept my father's house."

"Yes." He looked at me. "That's also a choice."

We ate in silence.

At ten he put his dishes in the sink — he rinsed them, which I hadn't expected — and said: "You should sleep. Tomorrow is a long day."

"I'm aware of my own schedule," I said.

"I know," he said. "I'm telling you anyway."

He left.

I sat at the kitchen island with my eggs and the specific feeling of someone who was, in a controlled and deliberate way, being managed by the most controlled and deliberate man she'd ever met.

The thing was: I didn't mind it.

That was what I wasn't ready to examine yet.

I rinsed my own dishes and went to bed.

In the morning he had coffee ready before I got to the kitchen.

He didn't say anything about it.

Neither did I.