Chapter 15: Once

I looked at the picture on my own phone, and then I looked at Rafe.

"The bridge is seven blocks away," he said. "He was there ten minutes ago."

"Or Valeria was."

"Or someone he paid."

"A photograph taken from a public bridge isn't a crime," I said. "We change rooms in the morning and we don't answer."

He nodded slowly.

"Nothing hidden," I said. "That's term one."

"Nothing hidden," he said.

I put my head back on his chest, and I felt him breathe in, and I believed him.

I woke at six to a cold pillow.

The curtains were open and the river was grey.

On the desk, on the hotel's cream stationery, there was a note in his square handwriting.

Tate has the doctor's name. I'm getting it. Back by seven. Don't be angry. R.

I read it twice.

Then I looked at the hook by the door, where my coat hung.

The pocket was empty.

The mitten key was gone.

I dressed in under a minute and drove with the window down so the cold would keep me awake.

I was not afraid for his safety.

I was afraid of what a night of waiting would have made him do.

The green door on Cherry Street was standing open.

The woman from the second floor stood on the landing with her little dog in her arms and her mouth in a flat line.

"He went up like a train," she said. "Then there was a crash, and I called. I'm not sorry."

"You did the right thing."

"Is he your husband too?"

"No," I said. "He's a friend."

I went up the last flight with the dog's eyes on my back.

The apartment door was open as well.

Tate was sitting on the kitchen floor with his back against the cabinet and a split lip.

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