“Just after midnight?”
“Oh,” he says. I can hear him stretch. “Okay.” His voice slips away, asking me why I’m calling without saying a word.
“I finished it.”
“You did?”
“Just now.”
“And?”
I sigh. “Is it true?”
“Which part?”
“I don’t know, Beckett. All of it?”
“You were the one who told me that fiction is just the truth, hiding in plain sight.”
“So, is that a yes?”
He’s quiet.
I try a different approach. “Let’s back up. First of all, are you home?”
“Yeah.”
“Is she with you?”
“Ana?” he asks. The nickname cuts me.
“Yeah.”
“She’s in… What day is it? Barcelona, I think.”
“How do you not know where your fiancée is?” I ask.
“Because I’m not there with her.”
“Oh.”
“Mel?” he says.
“Hm?”
“Why are you calling me in the middle of the night?”
“Because,” I reply, “I have questions.”
“Ask away. My life is an open book.”
“Did you really see your dad at the airport?”
“Yes.”
“My God, Beckett,” I say. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s old news now.”
