The smile sagged into a gape. I wished I were still wearing the Clownfish. I would have liked these emotions on tape.
“And I’m releasing that Clownfish tape,” I said. “You’re not going to make a penny selling it.”
His stricken look—so much more pained than when he’d watched Mitch die through my eyes—told me I’d struck pay dirt. Filthy, stinking pay dirt.
Well, there would certainly be buzz all right.
“You can’t release it,” he said. “It’s our intellectual property. Ours and Clownfish’s.”
“Is it?” I smiled, though it felt like plastic pinned across my lips. “What a pity it’s already been pirated, then.”
I turned away. It took a lot of will not to slam the door behind me, but it was so much more satisfying to let it drift slowly, aimlessly closed between us.
I glanced back over my shoulder once as I walked away down the hall. Peter was standing there. He’d opened the door and stood framed in the doorway, waiting for me to come back to him, the ridiculous tiara crooked on his head.
Peter waited. And I walked away.