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who’d hurt her and kill him.

Chapter 3
     
    C hloe drank her tea, the cup making a light tinkling sound as she put it back on its saucer. Her hands were trembling slightly. Did the two men notice? Probably. Both of them were watching her very carefully.
    Odd. In her experience, men didn’t have great powers of observation. Most men were so wrapped up in themselves they barely noticed the outside world unless it impacted them in some way.
    These two men seemed observant, however. Which is what she wanted, of course. She wanted to be listened to, to be heard. By Harry Bolt, though, not Michael Keillor.
    The only thing was that, right now, Michael Keillor seemed to be the most responsive. Harry Bolt just stared at her.
    Both men were completely opaque to her, which was unusual. She could usually get a pretty good handle on people within the first few minutes. There were so many tells—body language, their eyes, the way they were dressed, their tone of voice, the language they used. Even the way they breathed. At times, she thought she could read people’s auras, though she didn’t have any training in that. Just a lifetime of observation, on the outside looking in.
    It was impossible to read these two. Their clothes were nondescript. Good quality, comfortable, not particularly fashionable. Expensive work clothes for busy men who dealt with the world and didn’t sit behind desks.
    They were giving her a lot of space and time. She was using way too much of it.
    Her hands fell to her lap, started worrying the edges of the big manila envelope that held her past. And perhaps her future.
    “Mr. Bolt,” she began.
    “Harry.” His voice was very deep, almost as deep as his partner’s. “Please call me Harry. And this is Mike.” He nodded to the powerfully built man next to him.
    Something deep inside her quivered at the sound of Harry’s voice.
    “Mr.—um. Harry. I lied. I lied to your receptionist. I told her I only needed a few minutes of your time. But I’m afraid it will take longer than that. I’m really sorry I didn’t make an appointment.” Her hands clutched the edges of the envelope as she made an offer she hoped he’d refuse. “I can make an appointment now and come back later, if this inconveniences you.”
    “No problem.” He sat back in his big office chair, eyes never leaving hers. He reached out and pressed a button. “Yeah, Marisa. Cancel my appointments for the next . . . hour?”
    His partner, Mike, leaned forward, too. “Marisa, cancel my appointments, too.”
    “An hour for Mr. Keillor as well,” Harry said decisively, and lifted his finger from the button. “So, Ms. Mason, we’re both free and you can take as much time as you want.”
    Okay. Okay. Chloe stopped herself from rocking back and forth in anxiety. Where to begin?
    At the beginning, of course.
    “I had an accident,” she began slowly. “A very bad one, when I was small. I don’t remember anything about it. But as a consequence, most of my childhood and my early teens was spent in and out of hospitals. By the time I was fifteen, I’d had fourteen surgeries.”
    Both men winced. “I’m sorry to hear that, Ms. Mason,” Harry Bolt said.
    “Chloe, please.” She tried on a smile but could tell by the feel of her facial muscles that it was weak. “I, um, I didn’t tell you this to gain your sympathy.” She didn’t like talking about it at all, and never told anyone except medical personnel. It had been bad enough living through it. People she met could wonder why sometimes she moved stiffly, but she didn’t feel obliged to tell anyone anything. “The reason I told you is that my—my health problems ate up my childhood and teen years. My injuries were so severe that several times the doctors gave up on me. Apparently, I am alive by a miracle. The side effect is that whole chunks of me—of my history—are gone. I can remember very little, in fact, other than long stays in the hospital and rehabilitation in a