She tried, of course, to rearrange it — suggested that perhaps the two of us ought to meet privately later in the afternoon, just the two of us, somewhere quieter.

A month earlier I might have let her steer me.

I did not let her steer me now.

It was a small thing, refusing to meet privately, insisting on ten o’clock and everyone present.

But I had learned, across those weeks, how Shirley worked — in private, in soft voices, in rearranged times and quiet one-on-one conversations where a frightened old woman could be gently managed toward whatever Shirley wanted.

Her whole method depended on getting me alone.