“I know my handwriting.”
“That’s good.”
“But I don’t remember writing it.”
“No.”
He closed the notebook.
The phone was damaged but intact. A crack split one corner. The protective case had warped from heat.
“It may still work,” I said.
“Did you look through it?”
“No.”
“You could have.”
“It’s yours.”
His gaze lifted.
“I don’t know the code.”
“I do.”
The admission sounded intimate in a way I had not expected.
“What is it?”
I told him.
He stared at me for a moment, then tried it.
The phone remained dead.
“I brought a charger last week,” I said. “It’s in the drawer.”
Noah nodded.
He moved to the broken watch next.
His fingers traced the leather strap.
“Yours?” he asked.
“Originally.”
“You gave it to me.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Anniversary.”
“What year?”
