They went into Jack’s house carefully, with Gray doing his iceman impression and Marowitz acting very aware of all that this implied. Gray undid the single button on his jacket; the dull gray grip of the Hornisse was visible under his arm, sticking out within his easy reach. Marowitz wasn’t a stupid man, and he kept his movements small and measured as he led Gray into the living room.
They said nothing as they came in. The big holographic set was off, and Marowitz wasn’t alone. Seated on the couch, her hands folded in her lap, was Megan Cinders. The lines of her pretty face had been drawn into an expression of surprised sobriety; it was clear that neither of them had expected him to show up. Two bottles of Heineken rested on a coffee table that hadn’t been there before, a glass-topped oval sitting in front of the semicircle of the couch. The beers had been there long enough to leave sweat rings on it. Megan wore a black cable-knit sweater and a pair of dark jeans; her hair was down, her boots were off, and he saw that the nails of her small white toes had been painted gunmetal.