This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Martha is doing the nails of her right hand when her phone vibrates. She pulls back and gestures Martha to hold for a moment. She grimaces at the caller ID, hesitates for 2 seconds before her freshly manicured left index finger swipes the screen to answer.
"Harvey," she retreats her right palm from under a small LED lamp to massage her temple.
"Yes... yes... I've heard,"
The voice on the other end muffled, restless.
She stands up and paces towards the window. It's almost 4 in the afternoon. The sky is a cloudless orange-pink.
She looks like she has something to say, but keeps getting interrupted.
The annoyance in her brows grows, she takes a deep breath.
"No. You can't come to Switzerland. The lawyers are perfectly clear on that,"
The other end of the phone goes quiet. A menacing silence.
She isn't budging.
Five seconds later comes more soft muffled words and the conversation is over.
She tosses her iPhone X to the far end of the couch, sits down, turns to Martha and feigns a little reassuring smile.
Martha takes her right hand, gently puts it back to rest on a perfectly folded white towel.
"Qu'est-ce que j'ferais sans toi?", she says.
Martha replies with the warmest, most maternal smile, pushes her eye glasses back up slightly and continues the meticulous work.
Rachmaninoff resumes in the background.
"It's unfortunate," she says, almost whispering.
I look up from my laptop and halt my laborious typing. "What is?"
"That they only got him."
