Harlan was already there when she arrived. He was sitting at a corner table in a café six minutes from the Meridian, which she suspected was not a coincidence, which she had decided not to mention. He had a cup in front of him that he had not touched. He was looking at the door when she came through it. He stood up. She had not expected that. The standing. It was such a specific gesture, old-fashioned, slightly formal, the gesture of a man who had thought about this moment and had decided to meet it with a certain quality of attention. She crossed the room and sat down across from him and he sat back down and they looked at each other for a moment across the small table. He was older than she had built him in her mind from the phone calls. The careful voice had suggested someone contained and precise. He was that, but also more worn than she had expected. The specific wearing of someone who had spent a long time being careful. She understood that. "You look like your mother," h
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