Chapter 8: The Folder

Weston brought the folder to the kitchen himself.

It was a plain gray folder, and it was thicker than she expected.

He set it on the counter beside her bandaged hand and stepped back.

"It's yours," he said. "I'd rather you read it here than anywhere else."

"You'd rather."

"Yes."

She opened it with her good hand.

The first page was a photograph.

It had been taken from across a street, at night, through the glass door of a hotel.

Preston stood in the light of the lobby with his arm around Delaney's waist.

She was laughing up at him, and she was not on a crutch, and it was April.

Claire turned the page.

There was a hotel booking in Preston's name and a calendar with dates ringed in red.

She did not need to count them.

She knew each of those evenings by heart.

She knew what she had worn to every one of them, and what she had ordered, and how long she had sat.

"These are the nights," she said.

"Yes."

"All eight."

"I only have seven of the eight. The first was before I started."

She closed the folder.

Her hand had gone numb, and it was not the cut.

"You saw this in April," she said.

"The first photograph came from Ross in the first week."

"Seven months ago."

"Yes."

"You saw this, and you handed me a phone number."

It came out low and steady.

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