She grunted when a bunch of photos opened. “You didn’t have to grab these.”
“I copied everything.” I shrugged and gestured with my whiskey glass. “We were hurrying. Couldn’t really discriminate.”
She laughed and squinted. “Oh, wow, looks like she had a lot of fun on her vacation last year.”
“Right? Looks like a nice one, too.”
“Seriously. Five-star hotel, at least. Is this on some island?”
“That was my guess.”
“Good for her.” She clicked into another folder and returned to angrily skimming.
I knew we wouldn’t get far. I mean, we were both smart people, but neither of us were accountants and I didn’t have any damn experience reading through financial documents, much less finding incriminating evidence inside one. Fiona didn’t seem to be having much more luck than I did, which gave me an odd sense of pride—at least I wasn’t a total moron.
“I give up,” she said, leaning back in her chair and tossing her fork down with a clatter. “What the hell were we thinking? That’s all nonsense.”
“I know how you feel.”
“Maybe we can blackmail the truth from her? You know, use those vacation pictures against her?”
I laughed, shaking my head. “I don’t think she’ll spill the beans about her illegal relationship with mobsters over some mediocre bikini pics.”
“You don’t know that. She could be extremely self-conscious.”
“Sorry, but good try. I like it when you’re ruthless.”
She sighed and sipped her wine with a sour expression on her face. “It feels like every time we get close, we’re still left grasping at straws.”
“She’s not stupid. Immoral and an asshole, definitely both of those things, but not stupid.”
“So what do we do?”
“Well,” I said, sipping my whiskey, “maybe you could tell me your favorite movie.”
She stared at me, a little taken off guard. “I’m not sure what that has to do with Maria.”
“Nothing, really. I’m just curious.”
She rolled her eyes. “Come on.”
“You ate my delicious roast chicken, the least you can do is answer some very simple questions about yourself.”
“I thought we were here for business.”
“We were.” I gestured at the computer. “You gave it a shot, we’re both spreadsheet-illiterate, and now it’s the pleasure part of the evening.”
She gave me an annoyed look for a few seconds before relaxing back into her chair, arms crossed, wine glass dangling from her fingers. “Okay, I’ll admit, the chicken is really good.”
“I’m glad.”
“So I’ll play along for a little bit. But you have ten minutes, okay?”
“Plenty of time.” I finished my whiskey and refilled the glass. “Favorite movie?”
“Sixth Sense.”
I arched an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Really. I like the twist.”
“Favorite album?”
“Depends. But I guess right now it’s Parachutes by Coldplay. Remember when Coldplay was good?”
I snorted. “I remember.”
“What about you?”
“Joshua Tree by U2.”
“Beautiful, another band that used to be good and now is kind of—” She spread her hands out.
“Jumped the shark?”
“Exactly.”
I grinned. “Favorite TV show?”
“Easy. House.”
“Weird, that’s mine. And The Wire.”
“I think every doctor loves House.”
“Probably. We all like to think we’re as smart as he is, but the truth is, nobody is as smart as he is—because he doesn’t exist.”
“Wow, that’s almost admitting that you’re not a genius doctor.”
I held up a hand. “Easy there. Not going quite that far.”
She smiled and tapped a finger on her glass. “Why do you live in Philadelphia?”
“That’s an interesting question.”
“You’re a smart guy, young, single, doctor. You could live anywhere. Why here?”
I glanced down at the table for a second and composed my thoughts. I didn’t know how I’d say this without sounding awful—how I’d explain that Philly was the last place my family landed, back before my dad had his heart attack and lived out his last years as a ghost of the man he used to be, a specter still haunting my life. Philly was the first place that felt like home, even if nowhere was really home, not when I moved around so much.
“My mother lives here,” I said. “And I like the city. It’s walkable.”
She tilted her head. “That’s true.”
“What about you? Why here?”
“Grew up in the suburbs, so I guess Philly’s always been it for me.”
“I moved around a lot as a kid. Dad was a military man and he dragged us all over the country.”
“Must’ve been hard.”
“Sure, parts of it were. Sometimes I wondered why he had a family.”
She raised an eyebrow at that. “What do you mean?”
“He was distant. Controlling. Demanding. Borderline abusive.” I should’ve said, straight-up abusive fuckface, but I couldn’t bring myself to go all the way. “Wasn’t a pleasant man to be around. Sometimes I wondered why he had a family.”
“Huh. Is that something you want?”
I shrugged. “I think so. Wife, children, white picket fence. That’s the dream, right?”
“Sure,” she said, looking away with an odd expression on her face. “Children. House in the suburbs. The dream.”
“Do you want kids?”
She jerked her arm a little almost as if I pinched her shoulder. Her wine glass tipped from her fingers and spilled all over the keyboard of my laptop.