That piece of paper with the random numbers I found in her jewelry box.
I haven’t given it much thought since finding it, but now I dive for my nightstand drawer. I’m terrified it will be gone, the cops somehow recognizing it for what it was, taking it—but no, here it is, untouched.
I unfold it and enter the numbers, my heart in my throat.
It works.
Holy shit.
I’m in Fiona’s secret phone.
As I suspected, it’s a lot like mine: no apps on the home screen besides the ones phones come with. When I open up the messages app, there’s only one message stream.
The number isn’t saved to a contact in the phone. But it’s a 212 area code.
Manhattan.
My heart beats faster as I click into the messages.
The very last message is outgoing, dated three days before she died. It simply says, See you there.
I scroll up to read more.
Can’t wait to see you, my tiny dancer, from the 212 number right before. I feel a little sick.
I go farther up.
From 212:
You’re all I think about, tiny dancer
Can’t stop thinking about last night
Was it as good for you as it was for me?
Then Fiona:
Yes it was nice ☺
From 212: When can I see you again?
Fiona: I don’t know, I have a lot of practicing to do this week and then I have work
I frown. She was also keeping up the work charade with this person. I wonder why.
Why work? I told you, I’ve got you covered. Anything you need, it’s yours
I suck in a breath.
I was right.
It was about the money.
I keep reading.
Fiona: I appreciate that but I still need to save
212: You don’t need anything anymore, babe. You’ve got me.
Vomit.
I scroll up more, and more. All the way to the beginning of their conversation, from April of last year.
Right around the time Thatcher told Fiona he wouldn’t give her the money, according to Caleb.
She went into the city around then, I remember. Something about a tour at the American Ballet Academy. Maybe that was when she went to Thatcher’s, asked him for the money. And maybe Harold Montgomery had been over that day, saw her leaving, overheard them, even. Thought she was pretty and saw his chance. Gave her what she wanted. And in exchange, she had to give him what he wanted.
I can’t tell Seth about this.
“Addie?”
I jump a mile into the air.
Then turn to see Davy, standing in my doorway, a paper bag in one hand.
“H-hi,” I manage, trying to calm my racing heart. “You scared me.”
“A cop just dropped this off.” He holds out the bag.
