Chapter 5
Julian’s hand hovered above the photograph for three long heartbeats before his fingers brushed the creased corner. He didn't pick it up. Instead, he slid it toward himself with the flat of his index finger, as if testing whether the paper might dissolve if he applied too much pressure.
"She’s at Saint Jude’s?" Julian asked. His voice was lower now, barely carrying past the rim of his water glass.
"Third floor," Leo said, his arms crossed tightly over his chest to keep out the chill that was beginning to bite through his thin jacket. "They said the machine costs money. The lady at the desk said if we don't pay by Friday, they have to move her to the county ward by the canal."
Julian knew the county ward. Everyone in the city knew the gray stone building with the barred basement windows where people went when the money ran out and the names in the ledger were crossed off with a red grease pencil. It was a place where things ended quietly, without the comfort of clean linen or soft lights reflecting off the river.
He looked back down at the flute, then at the woman in the photograph. Her eyes seemed to look right through him, past the tuxedo, past the white tablecloth, straight into the back room of his mind where he kept the ledger of his own debts.
"Sit down," Julian said, gesturing to the empty chair opposite him.
Leo didn't move. He stood his ground, his chin raised just enough to show the stubborn set of his jaw. "I didn't come for food."
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"I know why you came," Julian replied, his voice flat, drained of its earlier defensive iron. He pulled a small leather checkbook from his breast pocket, the gold-plated corners catching the amber light of the table lamp. "Sit down, Leo. We have to figure out how much it's going to cost to buy back the rest of our lives."
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