snooped phone numbers as well as a summary of the night’s conversation. After I sent the messages, they stayed in the box for a few seconds, then disappeared.
Frowning, I composed and sent another text that also disappeared.
The phone buzzed with a reply. Got it. Erased the message. Thank you. Any luck otherwise?
I blinked at the message. I hadn’t realized that was something one could do. No. He keeps the phone all the time.
I sent it, and it disappeared along with Corbin’s earlier reply. Now that was just creepy. Ten minutes later, a new text arrived. Thank you. Got all the info we need. You can forget about the box.
I let out a tense breath. Ok.
His response: Please take first plane tomorrow?
Me: No. Thanks anyway.
Perhaps if he’d called and asked, I would have let him talk me into it.
I watched my latest message disappear. It occurred to me that he could have deleted the sweet messages he sent after our first night together… but had chosen not to. Maybe he knew exactly how many dozens—ok, hundreds —of times I’d taken this cell phone out of the drawer in my hallway and re-read his last words to me.
My face blushed hot. That would be embarrassing. And unfair. Though it would also explain why he’d so easily assumed, when turning up after a two-month absence, that I’d still be interested. Or maybe he had put a tail on me. Were you spying on me since November? I texted.
His response was immediate. Define spying. Joking! But no. Not really.
I wrote back: We need to have a serious conversation about how you use technology.
He replied: First we discuss you going alone, unarmed, after murderers during snowstorms.
Then he sent: Then we talk about you going away with men who aren’t me…
I sighed. I want to hear your voice.
He wrote: You will.
All the messages disappeared. I stared at the phone for a few minutes, hoping he would call. Nothing. I felt strangely abandoned. I wanted him to wish me good night or something.
Oh well. The man had work to do. I wondered if that meant he’d have to kill someone. We really needed to find some time to talk about this stuff. Discussing his job was never the first order of business. That needed to change. I nodded. Going forward, it would.
Of course, easier said than done. If Corbin showed up at my door right then, chances were that we’d be on the bed within three minutes.
Maybe one minute, since my current dress was a lot less of an impediment than winter wear.
I looked expectantly at the door. “No?” I asked.
Apparently not.
Curious, I examined the faux pencil box again. I ran my fingers over the inside, trying to imagine how it worked. I finally decided that it might be an amplifier of some sort. It would allow the satellites to find the phone, overwhelm Henry’s blocker, and download the program.
Despite the size, Corbin’s magic pencil box was of negligible weight. Might as well keep it handy. I returned it to my purse.
I moved the carry-on bag off my bed and took out my pajamas, then stripped off my dress.
The best part of hotels was reliable hot water. Henry’s door was open, but he was passed out on the bed, fully dressed and snoring.
Apparently my luck wasn’t all bad.
I showered quickly and slipped into the soft pajamas, turned off the television, and got into bed. The last thing I did was check the phone. One message. Good night, baby.
I lay there in the dark, smiling like a fool.
The next morning, Henry barely acknowledged me when I walked out of my room. I chalked it up to his disappointment over Corbin slipping through his fingers.
At the hotel breakfast buffet, he stared at the television for twenty minutes. Even when commercials came on.
“Hungover?” I asked finally.
“No.” And he fell back into a stony silence. It almost made me miss drunk Henry.
In the meantime, if there was a chance that Henry was going to do something interesting, I was going to be there.
So
Frowning, I composed and sent another text that also disappeared.
The phone buzzed with a reply. Got it. Erased the message. Thank you. Any luck otherwise?
I blinked at the message. I hadn’t realized that was something one could do. No. He keeps the phone all the time.
I sent it, and it disappeared along with Corbin’s earlier reply. Now that was just creepy. Ten minutes later, a new text arrived. Thank you. Got all the info we need. You can forget about the box.
I let out a tense breath. Ok.
His response: Please take first plane tomorrow?
Me: No. Thanks anyway.
Perhaps if he’d called and asked, I would have let him talk me into it.
I watched my latest message disappear. It occurred to me that he could have deleted the sweet messages he sent after our first night together… but had chosen not to. Maybe he knew exactly how many dozens—ok, hundreds —of times I’d taken this cell phone out of the drawer in my hallway and re-read his last words to me.
My face blushed hot. That would be embarrassing. And unfair. Though it would also explain why he’d so easily assumed, when turning up after a two-month absence, that I’d still be interested. Or maybe he had put a tail on me. Were you spying on me since November? I texted.
His response was immediate. Define spying. Joking! But no. Not really.
I wrote back: We need to have a serious conversation about how you use technology.
He replied: First we discuss you going alone, unarmed, after murderers during snowstorms.
Then he sent: Then we talk about you going away with men who aren’t me…
I sighed. I want to hear your voice.
He wrote: You will.
All the messages disappeared. I stared at the phone for a few minutes, hoping he would call. Nothing. I felt strangely abandoned. I wanted him to wish me good night or something.
Oh well. The man had work to do. I wondered if that meant he’d have to kill someone. We really needed to find some time to talk about this stuff. Discussing his job was never the first order of business. That needed to change. I nodded. Going forward, it would.
Of course, easier said than done. If Corbin showed up at my door right then, chances were that we’d be on the bed within three minutes.
Maybe one minute, since my current dress was a lot less of an impediment than winter wear.
I looked expectantly at the door. “No?” I asked.
Apparently not.
Curious, I examined the faux pencil box again. I ran my fingers over the inside, trying to imagine how it worked. I finally decided that it might be an amplifier of some sort. It would allow the satellites to find the phone, overwhelm Henry’s blocker, and download the program.
Despite the size, Corbin’s magic pencil box was of negligible weight. Might as well keep it handy. I returned it to my purse.
I moved the carry-on bag off my bed and took out my pajamas, then stripped off my dress.
The best part of hotels was reliable hot water. Henry’s door was open, but he was passed out on the bed, fully dressed and snoring.
Apparently my luck wasn’t all bad.
I showered quickly and slipped into the soft pajamas, turned off the television, and got into bed. The last thing I did was check the phone. One message. Good night, baby.
I lay there in the dark, smiling like a fool.
The next morning, Henry barely acknowledged me when I walked out of my room. I chalked it up to his disappointment over Corbin slipping through his fingers.
At the hotel breakfast buffet, he stared at the television for twenty minutes. Even when commercials came on.
“Hungover?” I asked finally.
“No.” And he fell back into a stony silence. It almost made me miss drunk Henry.
In the meantime, if there was a chance that Henry was going to do something interesting, I was going to be there.
So
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