EightTears watched her, engrossed. She seemed to glide across the floor, her body lithe, serene. A picture of elegance, and in that small, plain cafe she appeared oddly out of place. Alice wore a long evening gown, a diamond necklace at her throat and in her hand, a clutch bag with a curious patina. He gazed at it. Leather of some sort, he thought. She was smiling, acknowledging the admiring glances of the others. Some of the men gaped. Tears tried not to.
She sat down, leaned over to her husband and kissed him lightly on the cheek. He grunted but didn't look at her. Tears, transfixed, forced a smile.
“You look amazing,” he said and caught the quick dart from Melling's eyes.
“You look old.”
“Thanks. That's because I am.”
“Fifty? That's not old. That's middle-aged. Perhaps it's all the
