Confounded, I flip the note over. There’s nothing on the back, save for a grid of creases. Blank, like a clean slate. An act of closure.

That was, after all, the purpose of his visit.

But then snippets of our conversation echo in my head: his admission of assigning a pal to look after me, his merciful assurances to lessen my regrets, the solemn finality of his goodbye. Too closely now, they resemble offerings from a deathbed.

Did he never plan to return?

Criminy, this is silly. My imagination is getting away from me.

Even so. His reported actions leave me at a loss, starting with his lie about intending to fly home. Or maybe I assumed as much and he just didn’t correct me. Particularly with classified orders.

But orders to go where?

Holland springs to mind, and not due only to his language skills. As of late, Moretti’s gadget requests for his passengers—namely postcards and loaded matchbooks and such, printed with Dutch names for hotels or cafés, a clever touch to help agents blend—have indicated frequent drops into the country.

Still, that doesn’t explain Arie’s transfer from the Corps of Engineers. While his German-related dialect would have made him appealing to intelligence, what had attracted him? More important, what if he’s hunted down before voluntarily coming forward? Would his captors act in haste before hearing him out?

What if they don’t believe him?

Desperate to stop the spiraling questions for which I have no answers, I squeeze my eyes shut. Guilt still finds me. Five years ago, if only I’d let our friendship be, Arie would doubtfully have rushed off to enlist. Sure, after the attack on Pearl Harbor, he’d have joined up. But his promotions would have come later, reducing his connections, perhaps resulting in a transfer denied and an assignment elsewhere.

Cursing a history I can’t reverse, I ball my hands on my lap until something pokes my wrist: a corner edge of the train. I grasp its base. As I’d done on so many nights at the orphanage, my thumb finds a home in the grooves. With the train in one hand and farewell note in the other, the two objects symbolically span my relationship with Arie, a reminder of how well I know him. The real him.

In that instant, I draw certainty. No matter the accusations or how incriminating the appearance, I know in the depths of my heart that he’s innocent.

The thought brings an old image to mind. A film.

Seared into my memory, The Grim Game was our first picture show together. Up on the silver screen, Houdini, as a reporter wrongly imprisoned for a murder, embarked on a harrowing quest to clear his name and secure his freedom.

Almost eerily, the story resembles Arie’s predicament. Except this is actual life. And the risks are higher, the costs graver.