Page 141 of Hushed

“No.”

“I thought not.” She lets that sit for exactly the right length of time. “Off the record, and then I will ask you a real one. This is not a small local story anymore. Whatever happens in that room today is going to be read by people who have never heard of Fairhaven.”

“Is that meant to be encouraging?”

“It’s meant to be accurate.” She stops walking. “On the record. What will you do if they rule against you?”

I look at her. “I can’t answer that.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

I look over her shoulder one last time, but I don’t see Levi. “I will tell you what I told the crowd. There is a process, and we must trust that it works.”

“That’s not an answer, Dr. Saint-Jacques.”

“It is the only one I can give you. I need to have some time to collect my thoughts. If you don’t mind.”

She looks at me for a moment and then she says, “Good luck in there,” and lets me go.

This time when I call Levi, it doesn’t ring before cutting to voice mail, which means he has turned it off. He saw my name and put his thumb on it.

The fifth floor is empty and silent. My key still works in my office door. Nobody has stopped me all morning. I look back and forth, half expecting Security to come and quietly make sure I don’t cause a fuss. I open the door and look inside.

Boxes. Six of them, taped and stacked in the middle of the floor, my books in cartons with somebody else’s handwriting on the sides. The rug is rolled against the wall. The shelves are bare. My desk has nothing on it at all.

“Oh,” I say, stopping short.

I kick the nearest box. It doesn’t move. My foot hurts. I do it again, harder, and the corner of the box goes in. I keep going until I’m out of breath and there’s a strip of packing tape stuck to my trouser cuff.

Then I look down.

The toes are scuffed pale. Both of them, tan-white where the brown was, cracked across the front like a windshield.

Levi did these this morning.

There’s a square of gold silk in my breast pocket. He folded it in three points because he saw it in a magazine and made me stand still two weeks ago while he got it right, and now nothing is more important than the mess I’ve made of my shoes.

I get down on one knee and rub at the toe with the silk. The brown drags where I work it, lighter in a streak across the cap, and the silk comes away waxy and dark. I lick my thumb and go over the crack. The crack stays. I do it again.

“Dr. Saint-Jacques? We’re ready for you.”

I turn. I don’t know the woman who has been called to escort me. She is short, with high cheekbones and beautiful eyes.

“Do you have a tissue?”

She looks at me for a moment and presses her clipboard against her chest. “No, sir.”

“Are you sure?”

She doesn’t look away and she doesn’t come in. “They’re seated.”

“Is my husband here?”

“It’s just your lawyer, sir.” She’s already turned for the stairs.

I scan the office one last time and let her escort me down the hall and down the stairs to the fourth floor. Then I stop on the landing and listen for a second, in case his boots are on the flight below.

They are not.