I swallow and clean my face, as though Thistle will be able to see me. Then I make the call.

She picks up the phone quickly. ‘Yeah?’

‘Imagine you’re a math professor,’ I say.

‘You wanna explain what the hell you were doing in that courtroom?’

I hesitate. Right. The courthouse.

‘Were you trying to put me off? Get me sued?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘I sat up the back so you wouldn’t even notice me.’

‘That’s worse, you creep. You think you have the right to keep tabs on me? Were you and my asshole husband comparing strategies?’

‘Your husband?’ Oh. The lumberjack. Man, you got no idea. Your friend? She has a cold streak. You’ll see.

‘Don’t come in tomorrow,’ Thistle says. ‘I can solve this case without your help.’

It’s the perfect way out, but I don’t take it. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I was worried about you. When you said you had a lawyer, I thought you were in trouble. I just wanted to know what was going on.’

‘If I wanted you to know, I would have fucking told you.’

‘And I didn’t know that guy was your husband,’ I say. ‘He didn’t tell me. And he’s not what I pictured.’

She doesn’t respond.

I keep talking. ‘I get that you don’t …’ Like me anymore. The words are too hard to say, so I finish with: ‘… want to see me. But you’re my oldest friend.’ Only friend. ‘I care about you.’

Thistle hesitates, making it clear that she doesn’t think of me as a friend.

‘You can show it by respecting my privacy,’ she says.

‘I will,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have followed you.’

‘You had the chance to be a part of my life,’ she says. ‘You turned it down, remember?’

‘I know. I’m sorry about that, too.’

Another pause. I can feel her wondering what I mean. Do I regret my choice, or am I just sorry for hurting her?

The answer is both. Something else has been bubbling away in the dark recesses of my brain. I rejected Thistle because I was afraid of hurting her. But now Warner is providing me with a steady supply of bodies. My ugly desires are sated. Does that mean a relationship between Thistle and I could be … safe?

But there are two problems. One, Thistle hates me now. Two, Warner will stop supplying bodies—and maybe kill me—if I keep seeing Thistle.

‘So,’ Thistle says, ‘I’m imagining I’m a math professor.’

I exhale, relieved to be back on safe ground. ‘Right. Say you were locked in a shipping container at a dump site. You’re expecting your captor to move you soon. You want to get a message to the cops—a warning, about something happening on December ninth—but you don’t have a phone. What do you do?’