On the very last page, by itself, in pencil, there was one line.
If she doesn’t make it, it’s because I waited.
I closed the notebook and put it back on his desk where he’d find it.
I didn’t take that one away.
That evening, at 7:30, there was a knock on my front door.
Graham Quinn was standing on my porch.
In eight years, he had never once been to my house. He stood there in a gray work jacket with his hands in his pockets, looking at my welcome mat like it might explode.
“Can we talk?” he said. “Out here. Not inside. Please.”
I stepped out and closed the door behind me.
We sat on the porch steps. The streetlights were coming on. A neighbor two houses down was mowing his lawn.
For a long time, Graham didn’t say anything.
Then he took something out of his jacket pocket and held it out to me.
