"Evie, am I interrupting you?"

Evelyn looked at the bucket, the damp parquet, and the crumpled cleaning cloth.

"No."

"Good. I wanted to remind you about dinner next Sunday. Thomas will be home too."

It had been only a week since they'd last seen each other, but apparently that already qualified as a long separation in his mother's estimation.

"I remember."

"So you'll come?"

"I'll try."

Silence settled briefly on the other end of the line.

His mother had never liked the words I'll try. They left far too much room for decisions she was not making herself.

"How is the job search going?" she asked at last.

Evelyn glanced at the laptop.

"It's going."

"Does that mean well, or does it mean you simply don't want to talk about it?"

"More the second one."

She sighed softly but did not press.

There was still trust between them. It had simply become more fragile after his father's death, as though both of them now walked across a floor that might conceal a deep crack underneath.

Evelyn did not lie to her directly. He only told her as much of his life as his conscience allowed. His mother, in turn, did not try to learn more than he was willing to share. She seemed convinced that her son would rebel for a while, grow tired of cheap apartments and random interviews, and eventually return to the life he knew.

A normal job.

A safe office.

Family.

"You know I could speak to the people who run the foundation," she said carefully. "They're expanding the analysis department. No special obligations. You could start by reviewing documents."

Evelyn pressed his lips together.

Of course.

Sit in a large, bright office. Draw a salary from family money. Move papers from one side of a desk to the other, none of them remotely interesting. Everyone would be calm.

Especially his mother.

"No, thank you."

"You don't even know the terms."

"They wouldn't change anything."

"Evelyn, I'm not asking you to move home. It's just a job."

"Arranged by you."

"I only want to help."

"I know."

His voice came out colder than he intended.

His mother went quiet again.

Evelyn closed his eyes. Sometimes he thought she genuinely did not understand why he rejected every offer of help. Other times he thought she understood perfectly and simply hoped that, if she behaved as though nothing had happened, one day he would learn to do the same.

She had managed to keep living.

He hadn't. Not yet.

"All right," his mother said eventually. "I won't insist anymore."

Meaning: not today.

"Thank you."

The phone gave a brief pulse in his hand. A second incoming call appeared on the screen. Unknown number.

Evelyn stared at it, and his heart struck his ribs — fast and heavy.

"Mom, I'm getting another call."

"Then I won't keep you. Call me later."

"I will."

He ended the conversation and accepted the second call almost in the same movement.

Too quickly.

Evelyn realized that only after the phone was already at his ear and immediately scolded himself. He should at least have counted to three. Created the appearance of a man with things to do, dignity to preserve, and reasons not to spend an entire day waiting for one very specific phone call.

A low, calm voice sounded in his ear.

"Mr. Gilmore?"

"Yes."

"Marcus Johnson."

As if Evelyn could possibly fail to recognize the voice.

Heat flooded his face. He lowered his eyes to the still-damp parquet and had the sudden, mortifying sensation of being caught at the scene of a crime.

"I'm offering you a one-week trial period," Mr. Johnson continued. "Paid. After that, we'll decide whether we're a good fit."

Evelyn stopped breathing.

Mr. Johnson was, of course, speaking exclusively about work. Any reasonable person would understand that instantly and attach no additional meaning whatsoever to a perfectly ordinary phrase.

Unfortunately, Evelyn could no longer consider himself a reasonable person in any matter involving this monster.

Whether we're a good fit.

His grip tightened around the phone.

"When should I come in?"

"Monday. Nine o'clock."

"I'll be there."

The answer came so quickly that Evelyn scolded himself again. Mr. Johnson, however, once more gave no sign of noticing.

"Good. See you Monday."

The call ended before Evelyn managed to say goodbye.

For several seconds he stood with the phone still near his ear, staring at nothing. Then he slowly lowered his hand.

He had been hired for a week.

That did not mean anything yet.

A one-week trial was neither recognition of Evelyn's exceptional professional qualities nor a promise of permanent employment. Mr. Johnson intended to find out whether Evelyn could do the job. Evelyn, in turn, was supposed to decide whether the agency suited him.

Everything was entirely rational.

Professional.

Nothing personal.

Evelyn looked at the wet cloth beside the bucket. Then at the parquet he'd had to scrub solely because of thoughts about his future boss.

"Wonderful," he said darkly.

Something fell behind the wall again.

"I'm not buying anything ever again!" the man announced.

The woman answered with one short sentence after which, in all likelihood, he truly would not be buying anything again.

Evelyn lay down on the bed and closed his eyes.

Monday was two days away.

It was simultaneously far too long and catastrophically little time.