Chapter 7: The Open Line

The old boathouse sat at the end of a dock where Tobin had proposed to me six years ago.

I went alone, like he asked, with my phone recording in my coat pocket.

Joel was parked two hundred yards back with the engine off and his window down.

He had made me promise to wave if I needed him.

Tobin was waiting under the string lights we had hung that summer. He had no folder and no coat.

He looked ten years older than he had in the hospital.

"You came," he said.

"You asked."

"I know it's been a long time since I did."

I stayed by the door. "Say it."

He rubbed his face with both hands. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I should have stayed with you."

"That's not what I came for."

"I know. I know." He sat down on an overturned crate. "Leah, I didn't want any of it."

"Any of what?"

"The petition. The cards. The locks." He couldn't look at me. "She told me what to do and I did it."

"Who is she?"

"You know who."

"Say her name."

"Ingrid." He breathed out. "Ingrid told me what to do."

I stood very still so my coat wouldn't rustle against the phone.

"When did you sign the petition?"

"That Tuesday night."

"The night I had a fever."

"Yes."

"Did you know how sick I was when you left?"

His eyes finally came up. They were wet.

"I knew it was bad."

"She said it would pass. She said you'd just sleep, and I'd be back by morning."

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