She comes in person.
Not the next morning. That same night, at eight forty five, buzzing our apartment intercom with the specific frequency of someone who does not accept being hung up on as a final answer.
Rhys looks at the intercom screen.
"Helena Cross," he says. "In our building."
"She knows the address," I reply. "She arranged the apartment."
"Of course she did," he says.
I press the button. "Helena."
"Camille." Her voice through the intercom is controlled and perfectly level which means she is extremely not controlled underneath. "I would like five minutes."
I look at Rhys.
He shrugs in the way that means your call entirely.
I buzz her up.
She arrives at the door in her coat, no laptop bag, which means this is not a negotiation. Just Helena, showing
