Page 32 of Over Her Dead Body

In the mirror above the sink, I look exactly like what I am: a woman in yesterday’s clothes with last night still on her face. Mascara under my eyes. A mark at my collarbone. Hair that would not survive cross-examination.

I look away.

The clock above the stove reads 8:17.

Vienna is an hour ahead. Bauer’s private viewing began seventeen minutes ago.

Margot is in the room without me.

Bauer has gone from an accomplishment to an explanation. I need to get back to the office before my absence becomes the only part of the sale anyone remembers.

Call Margot. Face Celeste. Fix what I can.

I reach for the coffee pot.

There is a note beside it.

Back soon.

Two words.

The handwriting in the paperback was neat. Upright. Precise.

This isn’t.

The letters lean into one another, impatient and barely legible.

This is Reid’s.

I have not seen it in ten years and would have known it on any surface in any country.

He knows that.

Back soon is not information. It is an instruction.

Stay where I left you.

No.

I fold the note and tuck it into my carry-on.

There will be no confrontation. No carefully worded demand for the truth. He has already demonstrated what he does with questions. He turns them around until I am the one defending myself.

He was right. I should have left last night. That may be the only honest thing he said, which is inconvenient but does not make it less true.

I don’t have a time machine, so I am leaving now.

Not because I am done needing answers.

Because I am done letting him use that need against me.

If he is going to keep lying about who he is, he will do it without access to me. Not my body. Not my grief. Not another hour of my life.

He does not get to choose the terms.

Passport. Wallet. Portable charger. The note.

I turn on my phone.