Her voice was soft, lazy.

I told her the truth:

“Donald Willsson sent for me. I was waiting to see him while he was being killed.”

“Don’t go away, Dan,” she called to Rolff.

He came back into the room. She returned to her place at the table. He sat on the opposite side, leaning his thin face on a thin hand, looking at me without interest.

She drew her brows together, making two creases between them, and asked:

“You mean he knew someone meant to kill him?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t say what he wanted. Maybe just help in the reform campaign.”

“But do you⁠—?”