The voice of a man who was not performing sympathy but had arrived at this room carrying his own private version of loss and recognized the shape of hers.
Laura didn't move. He hadn't expected her to. He waited.
"And I understand," he continued, "why you don't want to talk about it." Still nothing. Just the fixed stare at the wall. Just the flat, still hands on the blanket.
Max let the silence run for another few seconds. Then he said, simply and directly, without softening it or building up to it.
"What did Austin want when he came to your apartment?" The name landed like a stone dropped into still water.
Laura's head turned. It was slow, the careful, almost involuntary movement of someone responding to something they hadn't expected to hear.
