I keep reading the document. At the end of the second page, after endless gibberish, the only number I can understand stares at me in bold:
I take a moment to collect myself. For a full minute, I do nothing but pore over the document again and again. Nothing but reread that number, as if its meaning could change with one more glance.
“Look,” she says, “I’m sorry I crashed your wedding. Believe it or not, I really am. And not just because your bride’s family wants to kill me right now.” She wrings her bound hands, gaze suddenly low and shy. “I just… didn’t have a choice.”
I have no reason to believe her. She could be a liar, a spy, both, something else entirely. And yet, for some reason, I do.
“I’m guessing those have something to do with it?” I say, glancing towards the cuffs.
She giv
