I tear my eyes from Reid, look up and give Vic what I hope is a look of thanks for rescuing me from Gregory’s extreme competence at keeping secrets. His mustache twitches, and I take that as a “you’re welcome” before stepping into the room, barely restraining myself from running over to Reid. But since there’s a lot of tension right now between Agent Tirmizi and this Micah person, I hold off.

“Did you tell her to come here?” says Micah.

Agent Tirmizi snorts. “Are you kidding?”

“She didn’t,” I say. I carefully unfold the letter, shuffling pages until I get to the last one. “It was in—”

Micah raises a hand to his brow. “You insisted on reading the letter,” he says to Agent Tirmizi, “but you let an address slip your notice?”

“It wasn’t an address,” I say to them, but I make sure I’m looking at Reid. “It’s coordinates.”

Lines and lines of lovely, loving code. The shop, where he first found me. The Promenade, where we first made our plan. The Garment Worker, and the awning where we hid from the rain. A tiny, always crowded restaurant in Nolita, a bright mural on Bowery. Off Sixth Avenue, the quiet refuge of Winston Churchill Square. A taco joint in the East Village. The broad, beautiful green of Prospect Park. A bar, an urgent care, my apartment building and his.

More and more numbers, for every place in the city that means something to me and Reid.

And then one row of them, approximately two hours out of place.

The numbers that led me to this hotel.

My eyes brim with tears again, and Reid’s jaw ticks with tension. His hands in his pockets look like they clench in frustration at the distance we’re being forced to keep from each another.

“Guess I missed it,” Agent Tirmizi says, but I don’t think she did. I think she’s a not-so-secret romantic. “Anyway, you’re his attorney,” she adds. “You should be protecting his interests. He’s allowed to see people.”

Micah looks back and forth between Reid and me, and then Reid and Agent Tirmizi. He sighs. Obviously I’ve never met him before, but I can see signs of fatigue all over his face. I imagine he’s had a stressful few days, too.

“I wanted to get through the rest of this stuff today,” he says apologetically, and for the first time I notice the setup of the room, the round, four-seat table that’s littered with documents. I don’t know what all of it is—statements or evidence or whatever Reid’s been stuck taking care of, but I know he absolutely should get a break.