Chapter 8: Careful

Graham read the text, and every trace of the afterglow left his face.

"I should answer him," he said.

"What would you say?"

"That you're with me. That you're safe." He looked up. "That's the truth."

"Then tell him that and nothing else."

He typed it with one thumb, with his other hand still on my hip.

She's safe. She'll be home soon.

The reply came back in seconds.

Okay.

It was one word, and it was nothing, and I stared at it far longer than I needed to.

I didn't ask Graham what Warren had been doing awake at ten at night, waiting to see where I was.

I already knew he was awake.

I'd stopped needing a wall to know it.

On Thursday I drove to Owen's house at seven.

It sat at the end of a quiet street, white brick with blue shutters, and every light inside it was on.

He opened the door before I knocked.

He'd cleaned.

I could tell by the smell of lemon and the empty counters behind him.

He stood in the doorway with his glasses already off.

"I made dinner," he said. "It's nothing special."

"You made risotto."

"How did you know?"

"I can smell the wine in it."

He laughed, nervously, and let me in.

We ate at a small table by the kitchen window with candles he'd obviously bought that afternoon.

He told me about a boy he'd operated on that week, a ten-year-old who'd fallen from a tree.

The boy was already asking when he could climb again.

I told him about a coding error I'd found on a hospital bill.

It had made me feel like a detective for a little while.

We talked about nothing, and it was easy, and neither of us touched the food after a while.

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