Bogart releases a hitched breath, as if rationing out his impatience. “Miss Vos,” he says. The pity in his tone is as comforting as a screech. “To be assigned to intelligence, your friend put forth a great deal of effort to transfer out of the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers. His skill sets in engineering, as you’re surely aware, are in exceptionally high demand. Did he ever share his impetus for the change?”

My mind grapples for reasons, any slivers of justification. “He’s skilled with languages. And Morse code—way back from his childhood. He likes to help people, to solve riddles.” Recognizing the weakness of my points, I contend as if stating a biblical truth, “Working in intelligence was always perfectly fitting.”

Bogart goes quiet, unswayed.

Two knocks interrupt, and Crockatt calls out a grudging “Yes?”

The door opens and Lenora appears. “I beg your pardon, Colonel, but it’s time we depart for your meeting.”

“Yes. Thank you.” He turns to Bogart. “Shall we resume this later?”

The response comes swiftly. “I’ve heard enough at present.” With that, both fellows rise, towering over me.

“Wait,” I implore, rushing to stand, desperate to make a stronger case. “The Arie Jansen I know could not have done this. I’ve known him practically my entire life, better than anyone. I guarantee it’s a misunderstanding.”

Crockatt shoots a glance past me. “Private, kindly wait in the truck.”

“Yes, sir,” Lenora replies.

When the door shuts, I’m still scant on the purpose of Arie’s actions—alleged ones, at that—though at least hopeful over continuing to be heard, to explore sensible scenarios.

“Miss Vos, we appreciate your time,” the colonel says. Then he motions toward the door, commanding me to exit.

Chapter 43

My scheduled tasks for the morning will have to wait. I race back to the inn and tug my curtains closed, perhaps an overly cautious move being on the second floor, but my thoughts are as orderly as a hurricane.

By lamplight, from my bureau drawer, I root out the wooden train, which I buried beneath my winter wear to elude the reach of my thoughts. An effort that clearly failed.

I perch on the edge of my bed and will myself to steady. The toy’s compartment could just as likely be empty. Upon reflection, it seems foolish to have not checked earlier, but more than ever, I was anxious to move past the things in life I couldn’t change. Or, at the very least, shouldn’t.

Finally I detach the cab and look. What I find prompts an instant tremor in my hands: a piece of white paper folded down to a one-inch square.

I set the two train pieces on my lap. Slowly I unfold the page. At a mere glance, I recognize the handwriting, the words.

Because they’re mine.

My dearest Arie,

I pray one day you’ll forgive me.

Forever, Fen