Marsh called at four-seventeen on Wednesday afternoon.
Not Lucas. Marsh directly, on the number she had given me in the conference room on Lexington Avenue, the one I had stored in my phone under a name that meant nothing to anyone who might look at my contacts. She had said she would be in touch when there was something to share. Four direct words that had meant I should expect the call and should not call her first.
I was in my room when it came. I answered before the second ring.
“Miss Whitmore,” she said.
“Mirabel,” I said. I had been saying it to her every time and she had been using it every time since the first conference room meeting. A small correction maintained consistently. I was building the habit in every space I occupied.
“Mirabel,” she said, without missing a beat. “I
