"That's not what I asked you."
Sophia looked up from the carpet.
"You said the camera will show you," I said. "You didn't say you wrote it."
Something happened in her face — a kind of collapse and relief at once, the look of a person who has been waiting a long time for somebody to notice the difference.
"I wrote it," she said.
"Then say what it was."
"Lena, it isn't what she thinks it is."
"Sophia." I got off the bench and crouched down in front of her, close enough that she couldn't look anywhere else. "Detective Bishop has a piece of paper with my name and my old address on it, hand-delivered to a police station three days before I met Damian Vale. She thinks it's a tip. She thinks somebody was warning them about me. I have spent five hours believing that too." My hands were shak
