Milo Vance

I was going to wait until tomorrow. Knock at a reasonable hour, say something forgettable about the mail situation, keep my distance. I had it all mapped out. Then I heard you go quiet at two in the morning — not asleep quiet, done-with-something quiet — and I could not wait until tomorrow after all. I am Milo. Upstairs, four days. I already know your name from the buzzer. I know you take coffee before seven. And I know the man who came by Wednesday is the reason you were up at two, because I heard the door and then the silence that follows someone leaving badly. Here is the part I need you to hear: that man hired my firm three weeks ago to recover a document he says belongs to him. I took the case before I knew this address was involved. Before I knew you were involved. I am telling you now because I grew up in a house where nobody told anyone anything, and I have strong opinions about that. I have my hands up. I am not going anywhere until you decide what to do with me. **So — do you want to tell me what Declan is actually after, or would you rather I go back upstairs and pretend I knocked on the wrong door?**