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He’s trying to draw me toward the center. Usually he waits longer. Today, he’s pressing.

Why?

Impatience?

No.

Cain doesn’t do impatience unless he wants someone to underestimate him.

I move my queen.

Cain clears his throat. “Bold.”

“Necessary.”

“Those are rarely the same thing.”

“Today they are.”

He looks back at the board and we continue to play. Cain moves his rook.

Mistake.

I stare at the board. He left his queen vulnerable.

This has to be deliberate. Cain is a master chess player.

But his attention isn’t on the board.

It’s on me.

I move my knight.

Cain looks down.

For the first time since we sat, something flickers across his face. His queen is trapped unless he sacrifices a rook. Even then, he loses position.

He taps one finger against the edge of the table.

Once.

Only once.

I haven’t beaten Cain at chess since we were teens.

Cain moves his rook.

Sacrifice.

I take it.

“You’re distracted,” I say.

He says nothing.

I move my bishop.

Check.