Wednesday, and the signal comes through just the way we rehearsed it — a scrap of paper folded twice, passed from hand to hand through the schoolyard until it lands in mine during the afternoon lull. Two words in Hope's careful handwriting: *Friday night.*
I pocket it and smile at nothing. Friday night. The twins did their part — Dana leaning close to her mother over the kitchen table, all wide-eyed innocence, "Mom, Mr. Roberts said he'd look over my geometry before the test," and Gina adding, offhand, "you should invite him and his wife over for dinner, as thanks. We can help you cook." Simple. Clean. Not a single suspicious seam.
Thursday, Mary calls. I let it ring twice, the way a busy man would. "Ben? It's Mary — Mary Hudson. Apartment six, third floor." A pause, breathless. "The girls mentioned you're helping Dana with her geometry, and I thought — if you and your wife are free tomorrow evening — you could both come over. I'll make something simple. To say thank you."
