Recusal

Jo asked for fifteen minutes on Marijke’s calendar the way she asked for everything that mattered: in writing, precisely worded, with no clue in the subject line as to what fifteen minutes would actually cost either of them. She had spent the weekend drafting the words in her head rather than on paper, because a script written down could be revised into something easier to say, and she had decided, walking home from the study on Friday with her hands still not steady, that easier was exactly what this conversation was not allowed to be.

Marijke’s office looked out over the Zuidas the way the meeting room did, the same view nobody in it ever properly looked at. She gestured Jo into the chair opposite without looking up from her screen, finishing a sentence of an email with the economy of a woman who protected her attention like currency.

“You…