Chapter 13: Ten O'Clock

The elevator to the fortieth floor was glass on three sides, and I watched LaSalle Street shrink under my shoes.

My lawyer stood beside me with a leather folio and a face that gave nothing away.

I had met her on Sunday afternoon.

She had read my three photographs twice, asked me four questions, and said, "Don't tell him you know until I say."

My phone buzzed against my hip.

Tobias had texted: You don't need luck. You have a pen.

I read it again and smiled at the floor numbers.

Then the doors opened, and the smile went away.

The lawyer's conference room had a long walnut table, a pitcher of water, and a single page squared up in front of a green leather chair.

A pen lay across the page.

It was the same pen as every August.

Porter stood by the window in the charcoal suit.

He crossed the room, took my shoulders, and went to kiss my cheek.

I stepped back.

"Nor," he said, in the soft voice. "You look tired."

"I slept fine."

"Who is this?"

"My lawyer," I said. "She'll be reading with me."

His lawyer, a gray man with a gray tie, cleared his throat.

"That isn't necessary, Ms. Whitby. It's the same form as always."

"Then it won't take long."

I sat in the green chair.

I did not touch his pen.

I took my own out of my bag, a cheap black ballpoint from Maggie's junk drawer, and set it down beside the page.

Porter watched it and said nothing.

"Read it," I said to my lawyer.

She slid the page toward her and read it in silence, and the only sound in the room was the air conditioning.

It took her under a minute.

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