I blink down, let my eyes slide closed for a few seconds so I can think of Reid that first day at the Promenade. His weekend clothes, his stern face, his sad eyes. Someone did tell me recently I ought to try keeping my mind occupied.

I feel the weight of the letter in my hand, let the pad of my thumb pass over the exact spot where Reid has written my name. I wish he had pressed harder. I wish I could feel some relic of his hand’s movement over these letters. I notice that it’s not sealed, the envelope’s flap only tucked inside, and I look up at Agent Tirmizi.

“I read it,” she says, shrugging. “Following protocol, for his good and yours.”

“Of course,” I say, my face flushed, my fingers tight around the envelope.

“I always wanted my wife to write me love letters.”

My heart thunks thunks thunks in anticipation. Agent Tirmizi seems nice and all, and I’m sure it’s a disappointment about her wife, but I’d really like her to leave now. I’d really like to read this letter alone.

“She’s more of a Post-it note stuck to the refrigerator kind of woman.”

“Yeah,” I say, as though I know anything about her wife. I only want to go, but I suppose running from a literal FBI agent would be a poor decision. Anyway, I’m already tired from all the walking I did.

“A few years ago, though, she got me a book of them. Famous love letters.”

Wow, okay. Does she also want to give me an inventory of the contents of the refrigerator that her wife leaves the Post-its on? Or can I finally, please, please go upstairs and read this—

“What I’m saying is, I’ve read a lot of them.”

She has a small smile on her face that hints she’s been stalling me on purpose, making me sweat this. I hope they do put her in those windowless rooms sometimes to make the bad guys squirm. They probably leave with their eyelids looking like throw pillows, too. But I keep my eyes fixed on hers, my feet steady where I stand, and her smile widens briefly.

Approvingly.

She nods toward the letter, then looks me straight in the eye. “That one’s a good one.”

And when she turns to open the door of her car, I know she’s not just talking about the letter.

Chapter 21

Chapter 21

Dear Meg,

Sending you this letter may be a mistake.