Out of the conference room and up the stairs.
We pass Hannigan in white coveralls on his way down.
I can still see a trace of the bruise his fist created on Patrick's face.
So Hannigan is indeed going down.
We climb two flights up to the dark landing outside the attic.
I don't let go of Patrick's hand.
He comes slowly. A little warily.
In the non-light of the landing, I can barely make out the details of that curious, intelligent face.
But his eyes capture what light there is determined to extract every thought from the brain he's currently reading.
Mine.
It contains a lot that should interest him.
I keep him standing outside the door for a few seconds too long.
We're facing each other in the dark.
I haul up a long gold chain from between my breasts and use the little key dangling next to my cross to unlock the padlock.
I put my weight into sliding the door.
The dingy corridor is blasted with white light.
Hand firmly on the small of his back.
I insert him into the attic, and lock us in.
The space distracts him from what he was parsing from my eyes.
It's on the cavernous side. Freshly painted.
White bricks. White wide plank floors.
Sunlight and shadow move across the newly white ceiling beams and ripple over the white linen sofa below.
Five people could lounge on that thing.
But it'll be only Patrick and I.
The windows and skylight sparkle.
Hannigan did a good job up here.
I must make a note not to fire his ass too harshly.
I watch Patrick's long fingers glide along the smooth cream enamel of Smeg's smallest refrigerator then move on to toy with each button of the Duxtop 9100MC Portable Induction Cooktop.
There's a cast-iron Itawemo kettle, five tins of Marriage Freres tea - Black Leopard, Marco Polo, Black Orchid, Russian Breakfast, and Eros. Then two unglazed Hasami mugs.
His eyes don't leave mine as he extracts a slender bottle of Voss water from the Smeg.
He pours water into the Itawemo and pushes start on the Duxtop burner.
Technology is a wonderful thing.
Twenty seconds later, the sound of water truly boiling breaks the silence.
"Nice playhouse, Teresa. Why am i here?"
My hand darts out.
The little key slides into his breast pocket.
"It's yours."