Chapter 8: The Call He Made

At nine on Friday night, Troy sent me one text from Maui.

"Nice of your boss to call me. Tell him I loved the speech."

I read it twice.

The studio was empty by then.

Dean had gone back to the hotel to sleep, and I was alone with the park model and the hum of the lights.

Elias's office door was open.

He sat at his desk with a pencil behind his ear, reading a set of drawings.

I stood in his doorway with my phone in my hand.

"You called Troy," I said.

He looked up. He did not pretend.

"Tuesday night, after Troy left the lobby," he said. "I got his number from the call log."

"What did you say?"

"I told him I had the lobby on camera."

"And?"

"If he came near you again, I would put it where his customers could see it."

"You didn't ask me."

"No."

"You didn't tell me."

"No."

"For three days," I said, and my voice went up, "you sat across a table from me and ate chicken and said nothing."

"I should have told you."

"You should have asked!"

I heard myself shout it, and the sound shocked me.

I hadn't raised my voice at anyone in five years.

Troy used to say shouting was what unstable people did.

I stopped and pressed my bandaged hand against my mouth.

Elias stood up slowly.

"Go on," he said.

"What?"

"You're furious. Go on and be furious. I'm right here."

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