I told him everything the following morning.
Not by design. I had not sat up through the night ordering the sequence of it or deciding how much to give and how much to withhold. The previous version of me, the one who had walked into Blackwood Tower nine months ago with a five-year plan folded into the lining of his composure, would have done exactly that. He would have spent the night calculating what disclosure served the goal and what disclosure created vulnerability.
That version of me had dissolved somewhere around eleven-forty-seven on the night I chose not to open the door.
Charles arrived at my room at seven-fifteen with two cups of coffee and no announcement. I let him in. We sat at the small table by the window and I talked.
