fifty-five

Monday, 29-Mar

Well, well, well, dear Annie, your paramour is a more interesting specimen than I’d imagined. I really must chuck your mobile. I’m flirting with my own ruin by holding on to it. If you were here, you’d tell me that I enjoy the risk. You’d be correct, of course, but we both know that most of the time the guards are sucking their thumbs, hampered by their own ineptitude.

No worries, I’ve now hidden the mobile off my person but easily accessible. I’ll toss it later. I knew keeping it around would prove fun, at the very least to learn who your friends are. You’ve received a few calls. Hellos from people who don’t know that death claimed you. These people can’t be that significant, so I deleted the messages.

Nathan Tate, though, he addressed me when he left his message yesterday: “Hello, I hope I’m talking to the man who sent me the text message. You have Annie’s journal, don’t you? So you know who I am.”

No fuddle-headed mistaken call this time. In his way, he’s trying to court me. He’s doing a bad job of it, but I admire the effort. I look forward to his next call.