Page 37 of Main Event

“Something’s wrong,” she says. Not a question. She reads me even in the dark.

“He was in the house,” I say. “While we were asleep. He moved my phone.”

She’s quiet for a moment—the stillness that means she’s placing the information carefully where it belongs.

“We need Daniel to move faster,” she says.

“Yes. We need to figure out how to contact him. How to get him to contact us. To come out of the hole he’s hiding in and help stop this madness.”

“We need Bill to move faster with everything he’s doing too.”

“Yes. This was already out of hand, but it’s just ridiculous now. I’d rather stand and face my opponent head-on and get it over with than keep up this psychological warfare bullshit.”

She reaches for my hand in the dark and finds it.

“Come back to bed,” she says. “We can’t do anything about it tonight. We need to be rested if we’re going to do anything about it tomorrow.”

I lie down. She fits herself against me the way she always does—careful of her knee, her head on my chest, her hand flat over my heart.

Outside, the neighborhood sleeps. Somewhere in the dark, a man who can go anywhere he chooses has delivered his message and gone.

We stay awake longer than either of us admits.

But eventually, we sleep.

CHAPTER TEN

ANDI

The coffee meeting with Evelyn is on a Thursday morning.

I don’t know Deja sees it.

She arrives early—earlier than usual, before the morning program staff—and she’s coming through the side entrance when she passes the window of the small conference room where I’ve set up for the meeting. I don’t see her. I’m managing the performance of being a woman who is grateful for institutional support, which requires my full attention.

She sees me.

She sees Evelyn across the table—the woman from the party. Sitting with me. Talking. Laughing at something.

She turns around and leaves.

She doesn’t come back that day. Or the next.

I notice on the second day. I don’t know what it means yet. I just notice the absence.

She comes back on Monday.

She doesn’t go to the homework table. She goes to the activity room and helps with the afternoon program and doesn’t seek me out. I watch her from my office window, trying to read what’s changed. She’s present but differently—a half-step more contained, the careful posture of someone who has made a recalculation.

I give her space.

Tuesday, same.

Wednesday, she’s at the homework table when I come through, and she looks up, and something in her face asks a question she hasn’t formed into words yet.

I sit down.

“The woman who came to the center,” I say. “I know you saw us talking.”