He told me to go ten seconds ago. Now he's tracking my destination.
"I've survived worse."
I step into my boots and zip the coat over Cole's sweatshirt.
"Maya."
My hand is on the doorknob.
"The file," he says. "What you have on my family. If that got to the wrong people—the people my father works with."
A pause.
"It wouldn't just be my father. It would be Marco. It would be me."
I don't turn around. My hand tightens on the knob.
"I know," I say.
I open the door. The cold hits my face.
"Wait."
I stop half in the doorway, with cold pouring over my left side and house warmth on my right. His footsteps hit the stairs behind me, then cross the hallway above me. A drawer opens. Closes. His footsteps come back down.
He stands behind me, close enough that I feel the heat of him through the coat. His hand comes over my shoulder, holding the small black recorder.
My recorder.
The one he took from my hand in the press room seven weeks ago. His voice is on it. Mine is too.Tourist. Borrowed name. Which observer.Every syllable of the night the dynamic changed.
"Take it," he says.
I turn back toward him. His face is closer than I expected. The recorder sits in his open palm between us.
"Why now?" I ask.
"You showed me everything in your drawer." His voice is low, rough at the edges. "This was in mine."
I take the recorder.
The plastic is warm from his hand, warm enough that my fingers close too fast and tighten around the shape. It is theexact weight I remember, and my throat closes around the next breath.
I slip it into my coat pocket.
We stand in the doorway. His eyes on mine. The cold air moving between us. Neither of us steps back.
"Lock your door when you get home," he says.
"That's an order."
"That's a request."
"From you, what's the difference?"
The anger leaves first. Then the sharp, hungry restraint from the office goes with it. What's left is quieter, and my brain stalls where the category should be.
"Please," he says.
