“The Enforcers contacted you,” I say.
He goes still.
Tape in his hands.
“How’d you—”
“Source.” I look at the tape. At the blocker half-done on the table. At 31 on the jersey hanging behind him.
“Why didn’t you tell me.”
He doesn’t answer. Which is an answer. Not the one I wanted. But an answer. I look at him for another second and then I turn and walk out, because if I stay in that room one more minute, I’m going to say something I’ll regret.
Something unfair.
Maybe something true.
That’s the problem.
The elevator takes forever. I watch the numbers go down. Six. Five. Four. I think about the name tag.
Three. Two.
I think about Griffin’s voice.Worst mistake of her life.
One.
The doors open.
He’s in the lobby.
I stare at him.
“Really…six flights,” I say.
“I had something to say to you.”
“You could have texted.”
“No,” he says. “I couldn’t.”
Florida afternoon coming through the glass doors.
Tape still on his hands. Neither of us moving.
“I was going to tell you,” he says.
“When.”
“When I figured out what to do about it.”
“Have you.”
“No.”
I stand there with that.
Six flights of stairs to say he doesn’t have an answer. I don’t know what to do with that. I’ve been packing light and moving fast since I was eight years old and nobody — nobody — has ever taken six flights of stairs before.
