And then, in eighty-six days, she’ll be free.
It’s safer this way. For all of us.
I stand, straightening her desk, making sure everything is exactly as she left it. The files go back in their precise positions. The pens line up just so. I turn off her lamp, plunging the cubicle into darkness.
But as I’m leaving, my hand moves of its own accord.
I take the notepad. It’s a small theft, but an ugly one. A piece of her I have no right to keep.
As I walk away, I look down at the stolen notepad in my hand. “Eighty-six days,” I whisper aloud. “I can keep her safe for eighty-six days. Then she’ll be free of me.”
I tuck it in my pocket and walk out. The elevator descends through the dark building, and with each floor, I tell myself the same lie again.
By the time I reach the lobby, I almost
