(no subject)

Where did betrayal start? In the head or in the heart? That was a line from something, he knew. Something his sister would know – real and fabricated. Simone would have been amused to know that he’d transformed her into his sister upon her death. She would have smirked and shook her head: “Sometimes, Michael, I wonder exactly how you climbed that ladder so fast when I know the only person you’ve been sleeping with is me.” Then she’d cup his big face in her narrow hand and kiss him, soft, sweet, a nip on the end: “Or at least you had better.”

Or she’d pinch him like they were grade-schoolers who didn’t yet know how to express affection: “Cool is not just work related, Michael. Cool is seven days, twenty-four hours, always on the job unflappable. Sister. Birkoff could’ve done better.”

He could have. But Elena had believed him – had let him get away with a piss poor lie, more likely. She had been there