His voice rises. “You’re nothing but a means to an end. You’re part of my plan. This”—he waves a hand between us—“isn’t anything. It’s nothing. You mean zero to me.” I look down at my hands, then back up at him. I say quietly, “Okay.” His temper snaps. He shouts, “Why do you keep agreeing with me?” “Because we both know you’re full of shit, so arguing would be pointless.”
