The Spy Is Cast by Diane Henders

to tear the nylons walking across the parking
lot,” I explained.
    “All right.” He
straightened and waited, looking away. I shoved the balled-up
stockings into my shoes and grabbed my purse. Pulling the slippery
skirt down between my legs, I swung out of the car. Such a relief
to not have to keep my knees together.
    Kane maintained his
silence while I padded barefoot across the pavement beside him.
During the evening, I’d grown accustomed to the extra height of the
heels, and he seemed very tall when I gazed up at him
questioningly. “So what’s the next step?”
    “Next step,” he
repeated. “Brain dump. Sleep. After that, we’ll figure out our
strategy.”
    He keyed open the
exterior door, and we climbed two flights of stairs to the third
floor. Unlocking his door, he flipped the lights on and ushered me
in. I eyeballed the place, trying to conceal my curiosity.
    The colour scheme was
taupe and dark wood, the walls a warm neutral hue. Recessed pot
lights created pools and washes of light. The main area was
sparsely furnished with a clean-lined black leather sofa and chair
and an expensive-looking stereo system. There was a small TV in the
corner, but it looked as though it had been placed as an
afterthought. Instead, the furniture arrangement focused on a stone
fireplace.
    One picture in a
folding frame was propped on the mantel, but the walls were
otherwise completely barren. In the empty space that would normally
accommodate a dining table, a large punching bag hung suspended by
chains from the ceiling. A weight bench and weights occupied the
rest of the living room.
    The only softness in
the room was a crocheted afghan folded casually over the back of
the sofa. I walked over to examine the blanket, smiling at the
artistry of its muted colours. The design and colour blocking were
masculine and contemporary.
    I looked up so he
could see my smile. “Arnie?” I asked.
    He nodded, grinning.
“When I got shot a couple of years ago, I couldn’t do much for the
first while. He spent a lot of time over here babysitting me. When
he wasn’t playing his guitar, he was working on this. Said it kept
his fingers nimble.”
    I laughed. “It must
work. I’ve seen those fingers in action.”
    He considered that
with a half-smile, but apparently decided not to pursue it. “I’ll
go and get the plans,” he said, and vanished down the hallway.
    I wandered over to
examine the photo on the mantel. A jaunty young man smiled out of
the picture, his longish dark hair mussed. He wore a grass-stained
T-shirt, and a football was tucked under his arm. His square face
and grey eyes at first made me think I was looking at a photo of
Kane himself, minus twenty years or so, but the bones were a little
finer, the features more regular. I considered Kane’s strong face
striking. The young man in the photo was unarguably handsome.
    I turned as Kane
returned with rolls of drawings under his arm. “Who’s this in the
picture?” I asked. “He looks a lot like you.”
    His face softened into
a smile. “My younger brother, Daniel.”
    “This picture has been
around for a while, then.”
    He nodded slowly.
“That was taken in the ‘80’s. He died a few weeks later.”
    A hollow opened in my
chest. “Oh, no. I’m so sorry. What happened?”
    Kane’s shoulders
straightened. “He saved a young woman who was being attacked by a
mugger. He was stabbed.”
    I turned again to look
at the youthful face in the picture, trying to control the burning
behind my eyes. “How old was he?”
    “Twenty-three.”
    “What a waste,” I
whispered.
    Kane’s voice was
steady behind me. “No. Not a waste. That young woman lived to get
married and have a family. The daughter just graduated from
university with a degree in music. She’s an incredibly talented
pianist. The son is married with a baby on the way. Never believe
that Daniel’s life was wasted.”
    I took a deep breath,
composing myself before I turned back to him. “You kept in