He was supposed to meet her at nine.
She'd put on the green dress—the one she'd bought herself, not from him—and done her hair properly for the first time in weeks, and she was downstairs in the thin October sun, Free on his leash, and she was smiling at her own phone like a person who had made a decision she wasn't ready to call a decision yet.
Not a date, she'd told Emily on the phone. We're just going to the orchard market. With the dog.
Emily had said nothing with a very loud quality.
It's not a date.
Sure, Emily had said. What're you wearing?
She'd hung up.
---
His number came up on her screen at 8:52.
She answered, already smiling. "You're going to be late."
The voice on the other end wasn't his.
"Miss Callahan?" A woman, formal, the particular careful tone of professional
