He walked up the stairs and into his alcove, then closed the door behind him. “Spitfire, access all messages to and from Professor Creighton Daniels.”

“Accessed.”

“And my information request concerning him.”

“Accessed.”

“Delete all records.”

“Permanent deletion or archives?”

“Permanent.”

21

I didn’t realize they’d turned this place into a hotel.”

Abby froze, then turned toward me. She seemed to relax a bit. I stepped inside the prayer chapel and closed the door behind me.

“How did you know where I was?”

I smiled. “An educated guess. How long have you been here?”

“This is my third day.”

“And what are you eating?”

“I packed some food and water in this bag.” She pointed to an old backpack.

“That’s not going to last much longer. So what have you been doing here?”

“Reading my Bible. Thinking. Praying.”

“For three days?”

“Three days pass quickly.”

“Not if you’re just reading and thinking.” I paused. “Abby, I apologize for laying so much on you the other day in my office.”

She was silent for a moment. “You’re worried about what happened to your father. I want to understand what the message means too.”

“It seems we have a common goal.”

“Yes, it does.”

“Would you…would you like to pursue that goal together? Team up?”

I couldn’t read her face. She was perfectly still, as if waiting. She gave a slight nod. “Yes, I think I would. I know I can’t do it on my own.” She rose off her pew and looked toward the front of the chapel. “I didn’t tell you something the other day.”

“Which is what?”

She turned back to me. “I had already received the same message—or rather, my father did.”

“I thought your father was dead.”

“The message was forwarded to me.”

That meant that nothing in the message’s content had surprised her—only my possession of it. She had been contemplating the message’s meaning for some time.

“Then it sounds like we are in this together.” I looked around at her spread of belongings. “Perhaps we should get you relocated.”

She furrowed her brow. “Relocated? Why? What’s wrong with this place?”

“Nothing. Except staying here this long is probably trespassing. It’s not a homeless shelter.” That could have been worded a bit more delicately. “It’s not a good place to stay, Abby.”

She looked at her stuff and back at me. “Where would I go?”

“Well, I’m happy to have you at my place.”

She recoiled as if shot.

“You don’t want to stay at my place?”

She started to pace the floor, saying nothing.

“Abby, I’d put you up at a hotel, but I can’t afford that long term. We don’t know how long you’d need to stay.”

“I have money.”