Behind the grin there’s another expression altogether, a shadow too well-hidden for her to read. She steps back, releasing his throat but keeping the gun snug against his stomach. Blue shirt beneath a tweed coat, a bowtie and braces – her free hand darts into his breast pocket and for a dizzying moment her fingers grasp impossible, empty space (bigger on the inside) before pulling out a slim leather wallet. She flips it open and, for the first time since she shoved him against the wall, she looks away from his face.
Inside the wallet is a single sheet of psychic paper, and three words scrawl across the empty space in dark, curving ink:
I’d almost forgotten.