The next morning, I called the number on the card.
It rang once. A voice—not Reed’s, someone younger, more clipped—answered.
“Mr. Ashford’s office.”
“Ellis. From Pharaoh.”
A pause. I heard muffled conversation in the background. Then: “One moment.”
Twenty seconds of silence. Then his voice.
“Ellis.”
“Reed.”
A beat. “You’re calling.”
“You gave me your number.”
“I gave you a business card. I didn’t expect you to use it.”
“What did you expect?”
More silence. I could picture him—standing or sitting behind some enormous desk, the morning light cutting across his face, his hands possibly still bandaged beneath a perfect suit.
“I expected you to throw it away,” he said. “Everyone else does.”
“Everyone else didn’t see you in the bathtub.”
His breathing shifted. I heard it through the phone—that same catch, that same half-second where the control slipped.
“No,” he said quietly. “They didn’t.”
“I’m not calling to blackmail you. I’m not calling because I want money or favors or whatever people usually want from you.”
“Then why?”
The answer surprised me. I’d rehearsed several versions on the walk to work—professional, casual, distant. None of them held.
“Because you looked like me,” I said. “And nobody ever looks like me.”
The silence that followed lasted so long I checked to make sure the call was still connected.
Then Reed Ashford said something I didn’t expect.
“I’m having dinner tonight. Not at Pharaoh. At my home. There won’t be anyone else.”
“Are you inviting me?”
“I’m informing you. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?”
Another almost-smile. I couldn’t see it, but I could hear it.
“Come at seven. The address is on the back of the card.” He paused. “And Ellis—”
“What?”
