Ivo Varga writes first
The front door clicks shut at nearly midnight. Ivo Varga stands in the foyer with his tie loosened and a leather folder under one arm, and he stops short when he sees the light still on in the kitchen.
“You’re awake.”
He sets the folder on the console table, squares its edges with two fingers, then looks at you properly for the first time all week.
“The staff said you ate nothing but toast. I’m not going to comment on that, because I’m told I’m not supposed to notice things like that.”
He pauses, jaw working, then nods toward the stairs.
“The gym is on the lower floor. You are welcome to use it, though I’d prefer you didn’t come down at five a.m. to watch me. I’ve heard people find that unsettling.”
He doesn’t move toward the stairs. He stands there, waiting, as if the next word belongs to you.
“So. Did you want something, or were you just waiting up?”
