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He squeezed my hand in his, and if I listened, if I focused hard enough, I could hear and feel the blood moving through his veins, the quick, birdlike beat of his heart. He was nervous, the tang of sweat sharp and sour, but there was so much more to it. It was—
—books falling around me as I crashed into the bookcase and—
—grass and—
—I tilted my head back, my fangs dropping and—
—lake water and—
—I fell to my knees and—
—sunshine. It was sunshine, the feel of warmth on my skin, soft and melodic, a song whispered under one’s breath. It was a caress, and he was laughing, and the sun was shining on his blurry face and he said, “I hope. I hope more than anything. I see you, you know? I see you. And I’ll—”
“Never let you go,” I whispered, my face pressed against the floor.
The computer was silent.
My phone was silent.
I lifted my head.
The little leather book lay off to my left.
I stood slowly.
Something fluttered to the floor.
I looked down.
There, by my foot, was a note.
I could see four words.
FOR WHEN YOU’RE READY.
I nudged it with my boot.
It fell open.
The phone number was the same. One I didn’t know.
Without thinking, I pulled my phone from my pocket.
I dialed the number.
It rang once. Twice. Three times.
Then, “Hello?”
I didn’t speak.
“Hello?” the woman said again, sounding annoyed. “Listen, buddy, if you think panting in my ear is gonna get you anywhere, maybe we should meet face-to-face and I’ll show you just how wrong you are.”
“Who is this?” I asked, voice barely above a croak.
“Who the fuck is this?” she demanded.
I cleared my throat. “This is… Robbie. Robbie Fontaine. I found your number in my pocket.”
