"Nobody's home," said Peter Jones in a calm voice from behind the
closed door. "Please leave a message at the tone. Beep."
Matthew Locke was not amused. Like a father exercising his right
to open any door in his own home, he entered the office.
He was met with the sound of continuous clicking from Peter's
keyboard. The office was small and sparsely furnished, with
simple overstuffed furniture and gray carpeting. Peter was
sitting before his computer at a black lacquered desk against the
wall, his back turned to Matthew. He closed the door behind him
and waited for Peter to turn around.
"Nobody's home," Peter repeated over the sound of his staccato
typing.
Matthew eased himself into the chair beside the couch,
remembering the first time he had sat in this very office, more
than two years ago, when Jones had hired him to run the company.
My God, Matthew thought, how he has changed - how everything has
changed.
All at once, the room was silent. Peter Jones turned around in
his chair.
One thing had not changed: Peter's eyes. Deep and black and
seemingly bottomless, certain and sharply focused, like the eyes
of a young boy determined to win a swimming race. Matthew felt
his toes grip at nothingness inside his dock shoes, felt his feet
slide silently backward a fraction of an inch across the natty
carpet, as if he were taking a step back from the edge of the
board for fear of diving once again into that dark pool.
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