Page 8 of His Reckoning

“Yes.”

“You’ve mentioned that twice now.”

“That’s because it’s a recurring theme.”

I shift my attention to the laptop in front of her. She notices immediately and slides it an inch closer to herself.

“Relax,” I say. “I’m not going to read it.”

“You were just accusing me of spying on you.”

“That was different.”

“How?”

“You were narrating my apartment.”

“That was creative expression.”

Her fingers drift back to the keyboard. She types, pauses, and deletes everything,

Type. Pause. Delete.

Finally, I say, “That doesn’t seem productive.”

She freezes, then slowly looks up. “You’ve been watching me?”

“It’s hard to miss.”

Her eyes narrow. “You’re judging my writing process now?”

“I’m observing a pattern.”

“And what pattern would that be?”

“You write something,” I say, nodding toward the laptop, “and then immediately delete it, like it personally offended you.”

“That’s not what’s happening.”

“Then what is happening?”

She hesitates for a second, and then she closes the laptop. “That’s classified information.”

“That seems suspicious.”

“It’s not suspicious.”

“It’s definitely suspicious.”

She exhales slowly, leaning back in the chair. “I’m thinking.”

“You looked less like you were thinking and more like you were fighting with the keyboard.”

“That’s because the keyboard is wrong.”

“Of course.”

She huffs. “You wouldn’t understand.”