Page 101 of Their Arrangement
It was there.
Waiting.
Pale, expensive paper.
My name scrawled in red ink that looked more like it had been carved than written.
No return address.
No logo.
Just inevitability.
Inside: a single photo.
The black book.
Small. Leather-bound. Wedged against a stack of sealed files inside a safe I’d only seen opened once. Barron’s safe.
The note was printed in smooth, feminine handwriting:
He still keeps secrets. But you’re the only one close enough to open the lock. You want peace, Cloe? You know what you need to do.
I stared at it for too long.
Long enough for my stomach to knot.
Long enough for the silence in the office to settle into my spine like a second skin.
I took it home.
I shouldn’t have. But I did.
Because I didn’t want anyone else to see it.
Because I didn’t want to admit that I already knew what the code might be.
Because Camille’s birthday was seared into me like a scar.
It was late when I finally poured the wine.
Too late for visitors.
Too late for thinking.
Just me, the lights low, the city outside, and the envelope on the table like a loaded gun.
The black book stared up at me from the photo.
I hadn’t touched it.
But I wanted to.
More than I wanted to admit.
The phone rang.
I froze.
