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“Yes.”

“From you?”

His face changes. Only a little, but enough.

I sit back. “That bothered you.”

“What?”

“Being asked why the advice is coming from you.”

“It was a cheap shot.”

“It was a question.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

For a few seconds, we sit across from each other in silence. There are papers between us, numbers and routes and names I am supposed to care about. I look at none of them.

“You have a lot of advice today,” I say.

“I have always had advice. You rarely enjoy it.”

“That depends on where it comes from.”

His eyes lift to mine. “What does that mean?”

I don’t answer. Suddenly a memory, unbidden, rises up. I’d tried to bury it away, but it had still come out crawling.

I remember Sofia at the kitchen table long after midnight, barefoot, wearing the blue dressing gown she liked because Anya used to play with the belt. Viktor had been there, leaning against the counter with a glass of water in his hand.

They had stopped speaking when I entered.

“You were always there for Sofia; I was not,” I say.

Viktor’s jaw shifts. “Someone had to be.” He doesn’t deny it.

I stand slowly. He does too. For a moment, we are only brothers in a quiet study with a dead woman between us.

“She was my wife,” I say.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

His eyes flash. “Yes.”

“You are sure?”

“That’s enough.”

“No,” I say. “It really isn’t.”

He looks away first. That bothers me more than if he had shouted. “Sofia was lonely,” he says.

“And you were generous,” I say.

He sighs. “Are you seriously bringing this up because I made one comment about Elle? Possessive much? Or should I call you petulant instead?”