Beatrice.
That night, Nathaniel appeared at my apartment door.
I'd spent the afternoon in my locked bedroom, reading his letter until the words blurred. Gerald had knocked twice, asking if I was okay. I'd ignored him both times.
Around seven PM, he'd left. "Need to get supplies. Lock this behind me. Don't open it for anyone."
I'd waited until I heard the main door close before emerging.
By eight-thirty, I was pacing. The meeting wasn't until nine. I'd planned to leave at eight forty-five.
Then the knock came.
Three soft taps. A pause. Two more.
I froze. That pattern—it matched what Nathaniel had described in his texts. A signal so I'd know it was him.
I moved to the door, checked the peephole.
A man stood there, face shadowed by the hallway's dim lighting. Sandy brown hair. Broad
