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He has nothing to say; she has hihts Does he feel hurt? Why should he? It is only the truth It occurs to hi from him His son wants to be happy

"So we’ll see you Sunday?" Olla asks, steering the conversation back to firround "Four o’clock--don’t be late"

"Race told "

"That’s because he knows you the same as I do Don’t be insulted--we’re all used to it by now" She pauses "Co soestion "That isn’t the province of ex-wives, generally speaking"

"I’an; you have to start somewhere You’re a celebrity Surely there’s someone you can invite"

"There isn’t Not really"

"What about what’s-her-nao"

Olla sighs--a wifely sound, a sound ofto help I don’t like to see you like this It’s your big moht?"

The call over, Logan broods The sun has set, darkening the room "Like this"? What is he like? And "celebrity": the word is strange He is not a celebrity He is a man with a job who lives alone, who comes home to an apartment that looks like a suite at a hotel

He pours hilass of wine and walks to the bedroom In the closet he finds his suit coat and, in an outer pocket, Nessa’s card She answers on the third ring, slightly breathless

"Miss Tripp, it’s Logan Miles A you?"

She seems unsurprised by the call "I just caet a glass of water"

She puts down the phone Logan listens to her footsteps, then hears a tap running Is he hearing anything--anyone--else? He doesn’t think so Thirty seconds and she returns