“No. You’ll know my closing statement when you see it.” Winters moved toward the exit.

Sayeva clicked off the microphone and sighed. “I don’t hate you, John.”

Winters shrugged a bit. “You should.”

The tone of those words struck Sayeva as odd. There was nothing threatening in it, just a statement that was more self-deprecating than anything else, and not in an amusing way. “But I don’t. I remember you, John. It isn’t too late for you to give this up.”

Winters paused and looked at her, studied her, for a long moment. “If you understood at all what I am, you would never have said that.”

He raised his right hand, palm forward, flat as though it rested on a vertical surface. Lines spread out...

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