He let her go.
He stood at the window — not the forty-floor window, the lobby camera, which Vikram had pulled on his phone and which he told himself he was watching for security reasons and which he was watching because it was the last available way to see her — and he watched her walk out the door and into the street.
She took the auto.
He watched the auto until it rounded the corner.
He put the phone in his pocket.
He stood in his study.
The document was still on the desk where she'd left it. The board communication, with her notes in the margin — her precise, diagnostic handwriting, the handwriting he'd been reading for months, the handwriting that had appeared on napkins and brand briefs and architectural theory margins and the note she'd left when she went to Divya's. The R is i
