Chapter Two: The Price of One Person

Lin searched her phone. In the third photograph of the saint, a blur occupied the edge. Her notes contained a line she did not remember typing: ROMAN—POCKET WATCH—DO NOT LET HIM BUY IT. The em dashes were a habit from her hostage-case briefs. No one else wrote that way. “Who's Roman?” Amara asked. “Someone we've forgotten.” “How do I know you're not having a psychotic break?” Lin pointed to the hotel wall. Eight portraits remained, but pale wallpaper marked the place of a ninth. Nine keys lay on the counter. Room 207 still did not exist. After a moment, Amara took a marker from her medical bag and wrote on her forearm: WE MAY FORGET PEOPLE. TRUST LIN CEN. She passed the pen around. Jonas refused it.