Chapter 14: In Writing

The note was on Phoebe's coffee table when I woke on her couch.

It was folded in thirds, and the three-legged cat was sitting on it.

"Your man slid that under the door at seven," Phoebe said from the kitchen. "I want it on record that I did not read it."

"Did you read it?"

"Twice."

I pushed the cat off and unfolded the paper.

It was written in blue ink, in the narrow slanted hand I would have known in the dark.

Brady has people at the dining hall and the Union. Stay with Phoebe until I come back at noon. Don't turn your phone on. J.

Under the J there was a short dash.

I looked at it for a long time.

It was the same dash as on the strip in my pocket.

"Terms," Phoebe said gently. "I'm only keeping score."

"I know what he did."

"Then I won't say it was one to nothing."

I was already putting on my coat.

He had told me where he lived at the bike rack, out loud, when I asked, so I would have no reason to be afraid of finding it.

His apartment was above a dry cleaner's, up a flight of stairs that smelled of hot starch.

He opened the door in a gray undershirt, and his hair stood up on one side.

"Cora. You shouldn't be..."

"You wrote me a note."

"It was a warning."

"It was a letter." I walked in past him.

"Last night every person I trusted turned out to be a liar. The first thing I got from you this morning was a piece of paper."

"I couldn't call. You'd turned off your phone, and I didn't want to wake the whole building."

"You could have waited."

"I could have." He shut the door. "I was scared they'd find you before noon."

I stood in the middle of his small living room.

There were books stacked on the floor and one pencil on the windowsill.

"Say it out loud," I said. "Whatever it is you want to say."

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