Ben looked at Melody blankly. He was sensing some tension, but was unable to place it. Maybe it was only irritation at having to repeat herself; maybe her first greeting had been softer and more mild. Still, we should talk sounded too ominous for him to just brush it off. He hadn't done anything to upset her, had he? He'd hardly talked to her since he'd gotten the first anonymous letter, aside from pleasantries in passing. He hadn't been avoiding her, but any time he spent talking to her was time he might accidentally let something slip, or that she might catch on. Had she caught on? He couldn't think when she would have, but he couldn't rule it out. She was shrewd, and it wasn't as though Ben was a master of duplicity. He'd never even considered having to hide anything this big before, and maybe he wasn't doing a very good job of it.

"Sure," he agreed, angling his chair so that it was half facing the room, instead of just the desk and the windows as it had been. He remembered his cigarette only because his finger brushed up against the lit end, giving him the slight sting of hot ash on his skin. He shook his hand slightly and took another drag of the cigarette. "What about?"

Of course, there was only one thing he was capable of thinking about at the moment: the letter he'd received from the mother of his child. Although at first he'd tried to deny it, Ben was sure the child was his, particularly now that he'd read a bit of her description of him. It just felt true, somehow.

She'd said he mostly talked in babbles, which meant he was young. When did children start using real words? Two or three? — but the fact that he was born before Ben had married that narrowed the window significantly. Older than a year, less than three. How many women could his mother possibly have been? The answer was right there, he could feel it.