Page 11 of When Sinners Fear
Easing myself up onto the stool, I take my glass for something to keep my hands busy with. The glass is tall, with a slender, narrow shape, with stacks of ice cubes filling it, the gentle green hue stronger at the bottom than at the top. The cubic volume of the glass is poor, perhaps a choice to ensure a higher profit margin from the alcoholic drinks they serve.
“Okay?” Knox interrupts my chain of thought, and I look up at him.
“Sorry, I was working out the volume of liquid the glass can hold. It doesn’t serve as a very generous offering.”
“And?”
“Taking the height and diameter, and then subtracting the estimated thickness of the glass walls, pie times height… it’s one hundred and sixty-two point five eight.” I pause and look at him, studying me. “You said you liked math.”
“I do. Although calculating the volume of my drink isn’t something I turn my mind to often.”
“Tell me something that does? You said you liked truth. Tell me something about yourself,” I state bravely.
“I’m in business with my family.”
“Here in San Antonio?” I ask.
“Yes, but we operate globally.”
“What do you do?” His answers have been vague and non-descript.
“Import and export.”
“Not science related?”
“No. I suppose you could categorise density and mass relevant in some respects.”
“I’ve only known working with science. Before I came back here, I had planned, or at least hoped, to stay on at Caltech. Further my research.”
“Applied physics isn’t something that gets solved in a day. From what I understand, there hasn’t been a huge amount of groundbreaking progress for some time. Have you considered anything else?”
“Well, string theory and the millions of applications for quantum mechanics aren’t concepts that have one linear answer. The research is vast and varied and is being used every day. It’s not a singular problem to be solved,” I defend. The research is close to my heart. I'm not having it belittled.
Knox grins at me. “You got some teeth when the right buttons are pushed. Good to know.”
“Pardon me?”
“You’re passionate about what you study. That’s good.” He lifts the bottle of beer to his mouth, and I study the shape of his lips as he puts the bottle to them and tilts it back.
Nobody has ever called me passionate before, and I take a sip of my cold drink to distract myself. “Can I ask you something?”
“Yes.”
“May I ask you something?”
“You may.”
“Why were you at the church?” I watch his face and body for any tells suggesting he’s lying. I know he said he was friends with Father Michael, but he didn’t seem to spend much time with him or hold any length of conversation.
“Didn’t I provide you with reason enough when we talked yesterday?”
I shake my head. “Not really.” I stop the sentence I want to continue within my head. He doesn’t fit at church, which leads me back to the original question. He’s proven the fact that he’s not religious or was there with anyone as I was in the capacity of my family.
“Would you believe me if I promised that I was indeed there to see Father Michael?” He picks up his beer again.
“Very well. I have no reason not to believe you. Except your point of debating religion versus science.” I sip my drink and calculate the diminishing volume.
He doesn’t answer me, but downs his whiskey, a peculiar look on his face. “Maybe I'm studying something, Peyton. Analysing it.”