Page 11 of His Wall

Subject returned to office at 2030 unannounced. Engaged me at his desk. No apparent probe or follow-up.

I read it back and hit send.

I closed the channel, pulled the drive, and put it in the floor safe under the rug at the foot of the bed, with the rest of the equipment the Bureau had given Claire Kent.

I sat back at the counter.

I should have closed the laptop. I should have brushed my teeth, set my alarm for 6:00 a.m., put my hair up for sleep, and done the four small things I had done at this counter every night.

I opened my personal inbox. There was one unread.

The sender field said Rafael Torres.

My throat closed. Grief came up first. Then anger. I sat with my hands flat on the counter on either side of the laptop, and I made myself breathe.

I clicked it open. The subject line was blank.

Hey. I'm in town next week for a case. Coffee?

That was it. No signature. No second sentence. The Torres I had known did not sign emails, and the Torres I had known did not waste a sentence on small talk.

The last time I saw him was at the Director's retirement at the Mayflower. He was across the ballroom in a navy suit, laughing at something a woman from Counterintelligence said. His left arm moved a little stiff when he raised his glass — only someone who was in a parking garage with him would have noticed. I stood with my back against a column with a glass of soda water in my hand, and I did not cross the room.

He did not cross it either.

I read it again.

Hey.

He used to say Hey, Cal across his pillow on a Sunday morning. He used to say Hey, you in a doorway when I came in late. Hey was the first word he ever said to me, in a hallway at Quantico, the week we'd been paired up — he stuck his hand out and grinned and said Hey. Torres. He already knew that we were going to like each other.

I liked him.

I loved him.

I nearly killed him.

My hands curled.

I closed the email without responding, closed the laptop, and sat with my hands on the cool counter for a long minute.

Then I got up, took my hair down properly, brushed my teeth at the bathroom sink with the door open so I could see the lock on the front door, and set my alarm for 6:00 a.m.

I got into bed.

The streetlight came in through the slats of the blind, making stripes across the ceiling. A car horn went off, far away. Mrs. Alvarez's television came up through the floorboards — the muffled cadence of a Spanish-language game show, applause every thirty seconds.

I did not sleep for a long time.

When I did sleep, I dreamed of the parking garage.

The phone rang at 6:12 a.m.

I woke up thirty minutes ago. Still at the counter in running clothes. Drinking coffee I hadn't decided to run on yet. Laced my shoes. Never stood up.

I picked up on the second ring.

"Calder."