Chapter 7: The Footage

Imogen put Dani in her guest room that night, with a security guard in the hall and a plate of toast.

"Eat," Imogen said. "Sleep. Nobody gets through my door who isn't carrying a casserole."

Dani laughed, and cried, and ate the toast.

At ten o'clock I stood in Beckett's penthouse kitchen with my phone in my hand.

I had been in that apartment a thousand times, and never once with the lights off and the city laid out below the windows.

He had asked me to come.

He had said only, "I need to see it," and I had not asked how he knew there was an it.

Imogen had called him from her kitchen.

"Sit," he said.

"I'll stand."

"Cora, you've been on that hip all day."

I sat on the arm of the sofa.

He took the phone from me without touching my fingers and set it on the coffee table, propped against a glass.

I pressed play and looked at his face instead of the screen.

I had not watched him watch anything in six years.

When Tanya said, "Watch this," his eyes went narrow.

When my hands came up in the frame, he put one fist against his mouth.

When I fell, he made no sound at all.

He leaned forward until his elbows were on his knees, and his shoulders went tight and stayed that way.

It ended.

I didn't touch the phone.

"Again," he said.

"Beckett."

"Please."

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