[It's different for her Oliver. He has to tell himself that. It's different for her Oliver, somehow. Instead of answering, he nods, moving to the sink to wash the green paint off of his face, and then to the little cot to pull a change of clothes in a plastic bag out from underneath.

He looks sidelong at Cissie.] I'll get changed and call a cab. I can put you up at one of the hotels in the city.

[Though he'd really rather have her close by, in case of what, he's not sure.] Or you could stay at my family's estate. You'll need a cover story.