Текст книги "She: Part 2"
Автор книги: Annabel Fanning
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Текущая страница: 24 (всего у книги 29 страниц)
“No, I don’t,” I confess. “But as you just pointed out, I’m obtuse, so…” I shrug.
“Just think about it,” Logan says through gritted teeth.
I’m about to, honestly, I am. But then my inner-bitch steps forward and puts her foot down. “Logan, I’m exhausted,” I tell him. “Today has not been a good day. I was happy to see you only a few moments ago, but now I’m nothing but pissed off. I really don’t appreciate you coming to work for the apparent sole purpose of making me feel stupid. You’ve seen that I’m not dead,” I still don’t believe he’s serious about that, I think, “so if you’re not going to explain yourself, then I think you should go,” I say firmly. “The rest of your name-calling can wait until this evening,” I can’t stop myself from adding.
He stares at me incredulously, his chest rising and falling fast. He holds his stubbled jaw tensely, his lips pursed, his dimples nowhere in sight. His pale-green eyes look darker than they usually do, as if copying his mood. He’s never looked at me like this before, with anger instead of adoration, and his body language has never been so rigid and closed off around me; I don’t like it, not one part of it.
“Fine,” Logan says eventually. “I’ll see you later,” he tells me shortly as he walks out of the room.
Immediately I turn my back to the door, leaning into the table for support, my whole body feeling weak. My bottom lips begins to tremble and it doesn’t take long for tears to seep from my eyes. I just don’t understand, I wreck my brain for an answer as I stand, bawling. I’m not usually one to indulge in feeling sorry for myself, but right now I could throw myself one hell of a pity-party.
It’s only now that I realise that my heart is pounding, my hands are shaking, and that nauseous feeling is back. I need another cup of tea, or five, and some peace and quiet to try and figure out what’s just happened here. Surely the phrase WTF has never been more warranted?
Why would he be so cold? Or angry? Why would he jump to such ridiculous conclusions about my mortality and then refuse to explain himself? This is so not the way we should be with each other given that I’ve been wearing my engagement ring for less than one day. But how else should I have reacted? His words just didn’t make sense. I told him that I would call him at lunchtime, so why was he so insistent that I ring sooner? And, for fuck’s sake, why couldn’t he just explain himself instead of insulting my intelligence? It’s bizarre. He’s usually so articulate, but not today. And his words are almost always endearing or rousing in some fashion, but definitely not today.
Fuck, I scream in my mind for possibly the fiftieth time today.
Outside the meeting room I hear footsteps walking past. I pull myself together, pronto, sniffing my nose and drying my eyes and forbidding anymore tears to fall. Come on, Gem, function properly. I leave the room with my head down, purposefully avoiding contact with any other living thing as the mortifying thought occurs to me that Logan and I could have been overheard, given the open door. As if collapsing in a fit of tears and then holding the boss and the receptionist emotionally hostage for most of the morning isn’t enough to embarrass me for one day, Logan just had to start yelling at me too. Fan-fucking-tastic!
I stare at the open Leary Constructions folder on my desk as I sit behind it once more. My sadness and confusion quickly transmutes into anger as I close the project folder and drop it inanely onto the floor behind me. I don’t then take the opportunity to distract myself with work. Instead I decide to stay in a foul mood for the entire afternoon, grumbling under my breath about my fiancé while the song I Don’t Like Mondays plays on a loop in my head.
The more that I think-over our last conversation, the angrier I become with Logan. Any normal person might spot this pattern and put a stop it it, but, of course, I don’t. If he knows about the shooting then surely he could realise that I haven’t had the best walk down memory lane today? Surely he could show a little compassion rather than animosity? I ask myself over and over what the hell is going on, but the hours of questioning leave me with nothing but a headache.
Sometime after four PM, I realise that the pain in my head is also partly caused by hunger; I haven’t eaten since breakfast, all of which I then threw up. In the kitchenette of Pierson House I commit workplace treason. I find and wolf down a large raspberry muffin that does not belong to me. My reason for doing so – that I’m hungry, and that being caught couldn’t possibly make this day any worse – is testament to how unlike myself I’m feeling, and acting. I’ll replace it tomorrow, I think, trying to regain my usual conscience.
Less than an hour later Amélie appears at my desk and before I can start defending my muffin-stealing antics, she orders me to go home and rest so that I might perform a little more successfully tomorrow. It’s a fair critique; I haven’t written a single sentence all day.
“I’ll be better tomorrow,” I promise her. I suddenly remember that I promised myself the same thing last Friday. I told myself that I would take the weekend to contain my excitement about our engagement, and that I’d come to work today and concentrate harder. How ironic, I think, that I’ve spent the entire afternoon feeling totally unfocussed, my thoughts consumed with Logan once more, though for entirely different reasons. I’d prefer Friday’s lovestruck mindset over my current frame of mind, but I just can’t find that bubble of ours right now.
My thoughts a messy tangle, I say goodbye to Margaret and Layla, before me, my bag, and my big bouquet of flowers step out of the building only to find Logan’s black BMW parked right in front of the doors.
He’s back? I step towards the passenger door, looking through the window, where there are papers spread over every surface in an apparent attempt at turning the space into a temporary office. Or has he been here all this time, I wonder.
He’s talking to someone on his mobile, probably someone on-site in Marseille, trying to make up for his wasted trip. He looks more like himself than he did inside earlier, I even see a glimmer of those dimples, and his demeanour certainly seems a lot calmer and relaxed. Until he catches sight of me watching him, that is. He does a double take before annoyance flickers in his eyes once more. I was beginning to enjoy my perving, but now it’s ruined. My own eyes narrow immediately, and a growl escapes me where I stand. Why is he being like this? What have I missed, I ask again. I hate seeing him respond to me like that, and what’s more, I hate not knowing why.
Logan leans across the car to open the passenger door for me to get in. He’s showing much less enthusiasm than I’m used to from him, and I find it disconcerting. I can’t keep Amber’s comment from floating through my head – it’s all down hill from here, she said.
Quit the dramatics, Gemima. Stop thinking and just go home. Yes, excellent idea.
I give Logan a there’s-no-way-I’m-driving-with-you kind of look, before walking haughtily to my own car, getting in, and speeding off erratically, my driving a match for my mood.
The closer that I get to my home the sicker my stomach feels and I begin to suspect that that muffin I stole might not have been as fresh as it looked. However, as I reenter the underground garage a shudder runs through me and I realise that it’s the prospect of walking only metres from where my neighbour died that has my tummy churning. I feel hypersensitive as I park, just waiting in dread for those eerie, cold feelings to take ahold of me again. Mercifully, they don’t, and I suddenly discern that somewhere over the course of the afternoon, whilst being mentally at war with Logan, those awful feelings have left me. That’s a silver-lining, I think mockingly.
Logan follows me the entire way to the complex, and when I turn to drive into the garage he continues on, to park on the road. I find him waiting at the top of the stairwell (no elevator for me, thank you very much) by which point my need to throw up again is overbearing. Without saying a word to him, I walk hastily along the path, trying my best to ignore the teeming number of people who are in and around the house opposite mine. Just don’t look, I tell myself. And I should especially avoid staring at the bloodstained concrete, I think, spying it in my peripheral vision. I feel my body wanting to retch, but I suppress the urge, and hurry off the path to my front door.
A few moments later I empty what little contents I have in my stomach into the toilet bowl.
“Is that the first time you’ve thrown up today?” Logan asks me, his voice coming from somewhere behind me.
Is that the first thing you’re going to say to me, I think, but don’t say out loud. “No,” I confess, somehow managing to feel hot, flushed, cold, and shivery all at the same time. He doesn’t say anything else for the remainder of the time I’m crouched on the floor, and I assume that he’s gathering his words together and his explanation will be imminent. Any second now.
When I eventually get to my feet and move over to the sink, Logan speaks from his seat on the edge of the bathtub, but they’re not the words that I need or expect to hear.
“Do you want me to pack you a bag?”
I look at him in the mirror above the sink. “Am I going somewhere?”
“To the apartment.”
I turn slowly around, keeping myself as coolheaded as I possibly can. “Why on earth would I want to spend my evening at yours with you after the way you’ve behaved today? Behaviour that still hasn’t been explained, might I add.”
He ignores my question and says simply, “It’s our apartment, not mine, and I’m not leaving you alone.”
I refrain from rolling my eyes. Does the think the gunman is still at large? “I can go to my mom’s,” I tell him.
“OK, we’ll go there…but I’m not leaving you, period,” he says, oh-so-annoyingly. Then he holds up something in his hand – it’s my mobile phone; he must’ve found it while I was vomiting. He throws it across to me and it lights up when I catch it. There’s a message on my home screen telling me that I have fifty-four missed calls from him.
“Fifty-four?” I shriek. I look up at him in shock. “Have you mustered the ability to explain why you’ve acted so OTT today?”
“I’ve already told you that,” he says.
No, he didn’t! Did he? I try to recall everything that he said to me earlier, and vaguely wonder if I’ve spent the whole afternoon grumbling for no reason, but I haven’t. I’m sure he never explained himself.
“Are you going to apologise for not calling me?” he asks quietly.
My mouth almost hits the floor. Is he fucking serious? The expression on his face tells that me that he is. Holding up my phone, I tell him, “I told you in my last message that I would call you at lunchtime, which I was about to do when you showed up. I purposefully didn’t call you earlier because I was extremely preoccupied this morning and I didn’t want to interrupt your morning on site, which is where I thought you were,” by the time I finish talking my voice is loud and angry.
“So you still haven’t put two and two together…”
“Two and two is four, Logan, but your little riddle is indecipherable,” I snap.
He looks at me impassively for a moment. Then he gets to his feet and says, “I’ll pack that bag for you.”
* * *
The view from the front of my house is a completely different sight to this morning, and now that my stomach is trustworthy, I take it all in. The cottage opposite mine is swarmed with men and women, someone in suits, some in police uniforms, and a long do-not-cross tape encircles the entire property. I could do with some of that tape right now, I think; I’d send Logan a clear message without even saying a word. Not that we’ve said anything to each other for the last ten minutes. We just moved around one another, packing clothes and toothbrushes, not to mention my flowers, him lost in thought and me torn between tears and a tantrum.
I decide on neither. I’m going to enjoy my evening, is what I conclude. A ready-cooked meal of Mercy’s and a soak in the hot tub, before sinking into bed and eradicating this day from my memory bank. Logan can sleep on the couch, I decide as an afterthought.
He locks the front door while I watch what’s going on across the pathway. Then, when he joins me at the top of the steps, I naturally reach for his hand, which he takes willingly. Dammit! Even after I’ve come to my senses and try to pry mine free, Logan doesn’t let it go. We walk the entire way to his car like this, and I have to admit that I like the normalcy of it. It’s the most familiar thing that I’ve felt all day, and it’s probably the reason why the journey to his is calmer than the journey to mine was. Sure we sit in silence, but it’s an easier silence somehow. Less prickly, less agitated, as though those brief minutes of our hands touching relaxed the crazy, stupid, unexplained tension between us.
Of course, in the back of my mind I still want to know what the hell has been going on today, but for now, at least, I’m happy to bask in the quietness, just feeling his presence beside me.
* * *
“Lights,” Logan says loudly.
Our apartment lights up in front of my eyes, and then Logan stands near the open doors of the elevator, indicating that I should walk out ahead of him. I go to the kitchen to put the flowers into the sink; he follows me, throwing his keys onto the kitchen counter, their clanging sound making me jump.
“Someone has to call a truce,” he says, standing at the end of the kitchen island, watching me. “So I’m going to do it,” Logan mans up.
I nod, thankfully. “Good, I think you should,” I say honestly, given that it was him who started our spat.
He clears his throat, and lets my digging comment slide. “I’m going to tell you about my day, and I’m going to do so without insinuating anything about your intelligence.”
I want to sigh in relief. At last, an explanation. I give the flowers a little water, turn off the tap and then take several steps towards him. “That would be perfect, Logan,” I tell him sincerely.
He turns and leads the way into the living room where we sit side-by-side on the sofa that we pleasured each other on only a few days ago. We both instinctively lean inwards towards one another. A good sign, I can’t help thinking.
Then, to my surprise, Logan takes one of my hands in both of his own and holds it in his lap as he speaks. “This morning was probably the worst morning of my life,” he tells me and when my eyes widen in suspicious disbelief, he adds, “No exaggeration, Gemima.” The way that his hands tighten around mine tells me that he’s telling the truth. “I was already on-site when your last text message came through, telling me that you were about to leave for work,” he says, and I nod my understanding. “The thing that I think you haven’t taken into account today, for whatever reason, is that I own the complex where you live…”
I look at him, bewildered. “I know that,” I tell him quietly, still not understanding how that could excuse his behaviour. I urge him to continue.
“And because I own it, I’m obviously informed about any major problems,” he says.
“Like someone getting shot?” I assume.
“For example,” he nods, subconsciously giving my hand another tight squeeze. “So about half an hour after your last message to me,” he goes on, “I got a phone call from the complex manager telling me that a brunette woman in her late-twenties or early-thirties was shot dead on the pathway between houses eight and nine,” he says, his voice becoming uneven. “He told me the estimated time of the shooting, and it was about three minutes after you told me that you were leaving your house.”
That doesn’t sound good, I admit to myself. I inch a little closer to him on the sofa.
“I’m usually a pretty levelheaded guy,” he says with the first hint of amusement that I’ve seen from him all day. “His description of the woman, and the location, and the timing were all a concern to me, but I wasn’t going to lose my mind yet, not until I knew more.” He sighs as he says, “That’s when I tried to call you…and call you…and call you…and you didn’t answer.”
I shake my head, shifting my position on the sofa so that I’m turned to face him. Logan mirrors my actions.
“I started to panic,” he confesses, his eyes pouring into mine. “Panic is not in my nature. That levelheadedness is who I am, and when I lose that, I feel like I’ve lost myself. That could account for the abnormally high number of missed calls,” he explains. “But when I couldn’t get through to your mobile, I called your desk phone. No answer.”
I would’ve been in the meeting room at the time, I think.
“I called Pierson House’s front desk. No answer.”
Layla was absent from reception most of the morning.
“And I called Amélie’s private office number. No answer.”
Amélie was with me, I think mournfully.
“I knew that something was wrong,” Logan says quietly. “Four unanswered numbers, each called multiple times, is not a coincidence. That combined with the information that the complex manager gave me was enough for me to draw a very dark conclusion.”
It all makes sense now. A brunette woman, in my age bracket, outside of my house, and all those unanswered calls…it’s no wonder that he jumped to the assumption that he did.
I reach out and cup his face with my free hand, and a moment later Logan leans into me and wraps his arms around me, holding me like he never wants to let go.
“I had no idea that you knew about the shooting, Logan. Let alone that you thought it was me who got shot,” I whisper to him, hugging him tightly. I’d’ve called him in a heartbeat if I knew, of course I would’ve.
“I thought I’d lost you,” he murmurs, his voice infused with emotion, his arms pulling me closer to him still. “As unlikely and surreal as I thought it was, I was panicked into believing that every detail could only conclude one thing. I thought I’d lost you right after I’ve just found you,” he says, and I feel like I could burst into tears for the umpteenth time today and I suspect I’m not alone in feeling that way.
I want desperately to tell him that his assumption was crazy, I want to tell him that he’ll never lose me, but I can’t. I’d be lying if I did. My parents are a painful proof to me that you can lose the love of your life in the blink of an eye, and so all I can promise Logan right now is, “Not today. You haven’t lost me today, baby.”
We’re silent for a long time, I think, or maybe time is playing tricks on us again. I feel our bubble encase us, but it feels like a different kind of electricity between us than anything else before. It’s not romantic, but we are unified, and I realise that the basis of our bubble, its origins, were never about the steaminess, the sexiness, or the romance, but rather a choice that we both made the second our eyes met at that first lunch date, to be together, to be connected, to be one. We don’t have to be ripping each others clothes off or playfully teasing one another or even talking at all for that connection between us to be there. It is there, and I expect it will always remain.
When we eventually break apart, Logan hastily wipes a stray tear from one of his eyes while looking deeply into mine. “I lost my fucking mind, Gemima,” he tells me. “I’ve never felt so sick with fear. I’ve never felt like my whole world was collapsing in on itself. Not even during my wayward years have I ever been so lost as when I thought you were gone. I…I just,” he shakes his head, “I couldn’t think straight. I couldn’t even explain to the guys on-site what was happening, I just had to get out of there,” he remembers, “and before I knew it I was back at the airport. I didn’t even call my parents to tell them that I was flying home early, I was too busy calling you or the reception desk or Amélie, but nobody picked up.”
“Logan, that’s horrible,” I say quietly. I can’t let myself imagine what it would be like for all of the signs to point to Logan being dead. It’s too terrible a thing to contemplate.
“Getting on that plane was a fucking nightmare; sitting in that confined space having to control myself when all I wanted to do was scream. I left my phone on and halfway back to Paris I got a message from the complex manager confirming the name of the woman who died and the man who shot her. I don’t think the other passengers or the stewards have ever seen a grown man cry before,” he tells me openly, bravely.
“Oh, Logan,” I whimper, and I can’t hold myself back – I kiss him. It’s just lips on lips, but it’s enough of a gesture to communicate my empathy. My heart is pounding hearing his version of events and our kiss does nothing to stem it but only adds to the overload of emotions that I’m feeling.
Gazing at me with his bloodshot eyes, Logan continues, “After the relief ebbed away, I felt so stupid for ever letting myself get so carried away with thinking that it was you, and I felt like an asshole for being happy that someone else was dead rather than you, and I felt so angry that you didn’t answer your phone or call me back. It seemed so obvious to me what had happened, and I couldn’t understand that you had no idea what I was talking about.”
“I promise you, I honestly didn’t know,” I tell him. “I was so distracted, Logan, that it never occurred to me.”
“Why?” he asks me quietly. “Why were you distracted?”
I sigh, and say, “I’ll tell you about my day.”
Logan nods encouragingly.
“I don’t like waking up without you,” I start off, and he smiles a little at my words. “Something felt wrong from the moment I woke up,” I recall. “I tried to ignore these weird feelings I had, I told myself that I was being foolish, and after sending you that last message I must’ve left my phone in the kitchen and left the house. In the elevator I realised I’d left it behind and I was going to go back for it, but,” I shudder where I sit, “then the doors opened and I saw my neighbour tucking what I suspected was a gun into the front of his pants.”
“You were near him?” Logan sounds horrified. “Did he touch you?” he asks, his panic rising rapidly.
“No,” I reassure him quickly, “he didn’t do anything apart from step into the lift and tell me to have a good day when I stepped out of it.”
“What?” he looks as confused as I was by the man’s words.
I shrug. “The weird thing is, that even before I saw him, this cold chill came over me. The hairs on my skin stood up,” I say, looking down at my arms, “and I was instantly reminded of the day that my dad died.”
Logan’s lips form an O of understanding.
I tell him more, “Then when he looked at me I swear I could’ve screamed if I wasn’t so scared. His eyes were just the same as I remember as a four-year-old, Logan, so hollow and empty, and this crazy deja vu kept messing with my mind. I had every intention of staying in the elevator, of going back up to get my phone, but when he stepped inside of it my body just…just moved. I don’t know how,” I muse again, “but instinctively some part of me must’ve known that I had to get away from him,” I conclude with another shrug.
“I can’t believe that he was so close to you,” Logan says, shocked.
“I practically ran to my car and that’s when I heard the gunshot. I drove to work, because subconsciously I must feel safe there.” That insight would make Amélie’s ego soar. “But all the while these memories ran through me about my dad, memories about him talking to me just before he went inside the petrol station, and how I remember seeing him standing inside…these are things that I never knew I knew until this morning,” I tell him poignantly. “I felt so sick, and those feelings of coldness and creepy eeriness only exacerbated that. I threw up when I got to work, then I knew I had to call the police but when I walked out of reception everyone was gathered around my desk to congratulate me…congratulate us,” I amend, “on our engagement.”
“That explains the flowers,” Logan interjects and I nod.
“They gave me a fright when they surprised me and I kind of lost my cool completely,” I admit in something of an understatement. I cringe at the thought of returning to work tomorrow. I should really go around the whole office, thanking them once again for the flowers and proving to them that I’m not as unhinged as I may have appeared to have been today. “Layla and Amélie spent most of the morning with me in a meeting room,” I then say. “That’s why no one answered your phone calls. They stayed while I spoke to the police, and while I broke down in tears about my father.”
“Gemima,” Logan says my name with reverence, the way I’m used to hearing it, and which after today, I will never take for granted again.
Before he can say anymore, I want to finish explaining myself. “Logan, I was going to call you around nine-thirty,” I begin sheepishly – it’s confession time, “but I don’t know your number off by heart. I found it in your project folder and was about to ring again an hour before you showed up but then my mom called – because Amélie had called her – and we ended up speaking for ages, talking through the new memories that I had about my dad,” I explain. “Then you appeared and I was so happy to see you, and then so confused by your anger, because I honestly, honestly, honestly didn’t know why you came back until just now.”
“I should’ve realised how the shooting would affect you given your past, and I’m sorry that I didn’t,” he says quietly, meaningfully.
“And I should’ve called you,” I humbly admit. Even without knowing the conclusion he came to, I still should’ve called him, because I desperately wanted to and because that’s what couples do in situations like this – they connect, they communicate. “I’m sorry I didn’t, Logan. I’m so sorry you had such an awful time.” He must’ve felt terrible; his panic was likely unprecedented and entirely engrossing, and if it had been me who had no choice but patience while waiting to hear more then I would’ve turned certifiable.
“It’s OK, baby. The relief I feel knowing that you’re alright outweighs everything else. That’s all I’ll ever want, for you to be alive and happy, and I took a part of that away from you today. I’m sorry I shouted at you without explaining myself. My head wasn’t working right. I should’ve taken your father more into account; of course you’ve been thinking about him today,” he says sympathetically.
“Apology accepted,” I give him a small smile.
“Likewise,” he nods. “And I’m glad, in hindsight, that you didn’t go back for your phone. You did the right thing in getting out of the elevator, and driving to work, and speaking to your mom,” he assures me.
“I did then steal a muffin that wasn’t mine,” I own up. That wasn’t very right of me.
Logan can’t suppress his laugh. His dimples appear, finally, and it feels like we’ve reached a milestone – now that I see them, I know that everything’s going to be OK. The worst of the storm has passed, I think. I reach out to cup his face in my hands once more, abruptly realising how much I’ve missed him today. I don’t ever want to feel as disconnected from Logan as I have this afternoon; it’s as unnerving to me as those eerie feelings this morning were.
It’s staggering how fast and how much I’ve grown used to his presence and affection. It’s scary how off-kilter I’ve felt without them. Within our relationship we’ve developed a beautiful and deep reliance on one another, at least, it’s beautiful most of the time. Today it’s kicked our asses. Today we’ve been grounded, humbled, and reminded of the enormity of the choice that we made a few nights ago. I didn’t just say yes to marrying Logan’s sex appeal and flattery, I said yes to marrying all of him, wild conclusions and misunderstandings included. We’ve learned a lot about taking one another into consideration more, and it’s a good thing, I think, that we’ve learned this whilst our relationship is in its infancy.
I take in the sight of his beautiful face, lit up in mirth the way it’s designed to be, and as I let my hands fall back onto my lap, I’ve no clue where we go from here. What happens now, I wonder. I’ve never been in a situation like this before. In fact I’ve never been in any version of a functioning relationship. Anytime that Jerry was mad at me, he’d remain irritable and huffy for a week, before acting as though nothing had ever been wrong. He’d never open up to me, never communicate, never try and resolve his anger, not like Logan just has.
Logan upstages Jerry for the millionth time by cutting right through the remainder of the red tape between us. “Are we OK?” he asks me, his voice soft.
I feel lighter and more carefree than I have all day. “Yeah, baby, we’re OK,” I sigh, relieved and grateful. We stare at each other for a long moment before a broad smile spreads across my face. So this is what a functioning relationship feels like.
Logan grins back at me, telling me, “I’ve missed that smile, Gemima.” His own fades slowly until he’s gazing at me once more with familiar, adoring eyes.
We cautiously, respectfully move closer to one another, until our lips meet. They stay pressed together as I urge Logan backwards and he pulls me forwards, so that we end up lying side-by-side on the long sofa. He tangles his legs with mine and then ending our kiss, he buries his face into my neck.
“I thought I’d lost you,” he says again.
I tighten my grip on him and snuggle even further into his embrace. Not today.
He takes a deep breath and releases it in sheer relief that everything today has panned out in our favour. “I just want to hold you,” he murmurs into my hair.
I nod into his shoulder and we lie for a long time, breathing as one in the absolute silence. I suspect that we could stay like this all night if it weren’t for Logan’s mobile phone, which starts ringing loudly from inside his pants pocket.
He groans. “It’s one of the guys in Marseille,” he mutters, clearly expecting their call. He leans up and pulls the phone out, giving the caller ID a quick once over, before saying to me, almost ruefully, “I should probably get this.”
