You Should Check Your Desk

I had written that note myself, the night before, in the hospital, with my good hand, on the monogrammed cardstock Faye had brought at my request.

I had thought hard about the words.

I wanted them short.

I wanted them calm.

I wanted them to carry, in seven words, the entire reversal — to let Ian understand, standing in an empty hospital room where he had expected to find a pliable and weeping wife, that the game had already been played to the end and he had already lost, and that all that remained was for him to go home and discover how thoroughly. You should check your desk.

Hurry home. Not a threat.