Page 30 of Night of Shadows
"Yes."
"The basil plant in the kitchen window. It is dead. It is supposed to be dead. Do not water it. Do not throw it out. I will replace it when this is over."
Petrov writes ‘do not water dead plant‘on the list. He does it without changing his expression. He seems like a capable man, and he’s the kind of capable who writes things down without commentary.
"Anything else?" he says.
"The mug on the counter. The blue one with the chip. Bring that."
"Yes."
"The throw on the back of the couch. The gray one. Nora sleeps with it sometimes."
"Yes."
"That is everything."
Petrov nods. Petrov leaves. The list goes with him. He’s going to my apartment with a four-man team to box up the contents of my life, and he’s going to do it in a way that is tactically clean and emotionally invisible, and I am not going to think about the fact that the man I used to make tea for in this kitchen is now sending another man to retrieve my mug for me.
? ? ?
Lex is in the dining room at 10:15. He’s cleared the table. He’s put a Glock on it. He’s a second Glock in a holster on his hip that I have not seen him wear inside the house, which means he’s put it on for me, and I am going to register this and decide what to do with the registration later.
Nora is at daycare. Petrov's secondary team has driven her, with two cars and an itinerary I was given a copy of at 7:00 this morning. She’ll be back at 12:15.
"Maeve," Lex says.
"Yes."
"You are going to learn how to clear a weapon."
"I know how to clear a weapon. I shot at a range twice in college. I am not a complete idiot."
"You are going to learn how to clear a weapon. The version where you are not a college student at a range. The version where there is one between you and the door of your daughter's bedroom."
"All right."
He hands me the Glock. He does it the way a man hands a knife to another man in a kitchen: grip-first, with the muzzle aimed at the floor between us, and his hand coming away from the slide before mine has fully closed on the frame. The motion is one continuous transfer of trust.
"It is unloaded," he says.
"I assumed."
"Verify."
I drop the magazine. I rack the slide. The chamber is clear. I lock it back.
"Good," he says.
It is the first time he’s said ‘good’ to me in this house. It is one syllable. This is the moment.
I am going to think about this for the rest of the morning, whether I want to or not.
"Stand," he says.
I stand. He moves the chair I was sitting in away from the table. He sets it against the wall. The dining room is now a clear floor between me and the table, and the geometry of what is about to happen reorganizes itself in my mind before he’s finished setting the chair down.
"I am going to stand behind you," he says, in the flat voice he uses for instructions, with no inflection. "I am going to put my arms around you to correct your stance and your grip. I am going to do this because that is how the lesson is taught. If at any point you want me to step back, you say ‘step back,’ and I step back. Do you understand?”
