POV: Rosalind
I called Theo repeatedly and got no answer, which had never happened before.
First call at noon. Voicemail. No callback.
Second call at one. Voicemail. No callback.
Third, fourth, fifth calls. All voicemail. All silence.
In three months of careful coordination, Theo had never not answered. Had never let a call go unanswered for more than an hour. He'd told me that communication was survival. That staying connected meant staying alive. That if I needed him, he'd be there.
Now he wasn't answering. And that terrified me more than Daniel's vague text message.
I went to our agreed public fallback location anyway—the large train station café where crowds provided cover and departures provided excuse for ending conversations abruptly.
I arrived at two. Found a table with sightlines to three entrances. Ordered nothing. Just sat with my phone and my keys and the crushing understanding that Theo's silence meant something had changed. Something I couldn't see yet but could feel pressing against me from all sides.
I waited.
Two-fifteen. Two-thirty. Two-forty-five.
People moved through the station around me. Travelers with luggage. Commuters with briefcases. Teenagers with backpacks. Everyone going somewhere. Everyone with destinations and timelines and lives that continued in predictable patterns.
I sat in the café watching the departure board change. Watching arrivals become departures. Watching time measure itself in trains I wasn't boarding.
At three, Theo appeared.
He didn't approach immediately. Just stood near the newsstand across the concourse, watching. Checking surroundings. Confirming I was alone. Ensuring nothing looked wrong before committing to contact.
Then he crossed to my table. Sat down across from me—not beside me like he usually did. Across. Creating distance. Making this a different kind of meeting.
He didn't touch me. Didn't take my hand. Didn't lean close. Just sat there looking exhausted. Worn. Like he'd been awake for days.
"You didn't answer," I said.
"I couldn't."
"Why?"
"Because I cannot be seen with you again until this resolves." His voice was flat. Final. "Operational distance. It's necessary now."
"What does that mean?"
"It means Daniel's situation has escalated. People are watching everyone connected to him. If they see me with you—if they identify me as someone in your life—you become more vulnerable, not less. So I need to create distance."
"You're cutting me off."
"I'm protecting you." His eyes held mine. "There's a difference."
"It doesn't feel different."
"I know. But proximity now increases risk rather than safety. Everything I taught you about varying patterns, about being unpredictable—that only works if the people teaching you can't be connected to you." He glanced around the café. "If they identify me, they understand your strategy. They know you've been prepared. That makes you more dangerous to them. Which makes you more at risk."
"Is Daniel alive?" I asked directly.
Theo was quiet for a moment. Then: "For now."
Two words. The same economy of language Daniel had used in his text. For now. Present tense. Temporary status. Subject to change.
"What does 'for now' mean?"
"It means he's still breathing. Still negotiating. Still trying to manage outcomes he can't actually manage." Theo's jaw tightened. "But the situation has moved past negotiation. They're not discussing terms anymore. They're delivering demands. And Daniel's running out of ways to refuse without consequences."
"When will you know if he—" I couldn't finish the sentence.
"Soon. Maybe hours. Maybe tomorrow. Depends on how fast Daniel realizes he can't win this." Theo finally reached across the table. Not to take my hand. Just to touch my wrist briefly. "When it happens—and it will happen—you won't hear it from me first. You'll hear it from police or from Luca or from whoever finds him. But you won't hear it from me."
"Why not?"
"Because me contacting you about Daniel's death would connect us. Would give them a thread to pull. Would make you a witness to someone who might have intervened." He pulled his hand back. "So when it happens, you grieve like a wife who didn't see it coming. You cooperate with authorities. You claim ignorance about Daniel's business. And you never mention my name. Not to police. Not to Luca. Not to anyone."
"You're asking me to pretend you don't exist."
"I'm asking you to survive what's coming." His voice softened slightly. "And I'm telling you that when this is over—when enough time has passed that connecting us doesn't threaten you—I'll find you. Not the other way around. Me to you. When it's safe."
"How long?"
"Months. Maybe a year. However long it takes for attention to shift away from Daniel's widow." He stood. "I have to go. This conversation is already too long."
"Theo—"
"Don't follow me. Don't call again. Don't look for me." He moved around the table. Leaned down. Kissed my forehead—just my forehead, no mouth, no hands, just the brief press of his lips against my skin. "I love you. Remember that when you're angry about my silence. Remember that distance is how I keep you breathing."
Then he walked away. Through the café. Into the station concourse. Disappearing into the crowd of travelers who were all going somewhere while I sat alone with cold coffee and the understanding that Theo had just said goodbye without calling it goodbye.
I watched the departure board change.
Rome. Frankfurt. Brussels. Paris.
Cities and times and platform numbers shifting with mechanical precision. Every train leaving on schedule. Every arrival connecting to departure. The world operating with clockwork efficiency while mine fell apart in increments too small to measure from the outside.
For now.
That's what Theo had said about Daniel. Alive for now. Present tense. Temporary status.
And I realized, sitting there watching trains depart to places I'd never go, that Theo was already counting time differently than I was.
I was counting hours until Daniel came home.
Theo was counting hours until Daniel didn't.