I couldn't believe that I'd cried in front of her. It made me angry at myself, but I tried to put it aside. An entire day passed, we didn't leave the place and there was still no word. I stood and looked toward the window, the heavens had opened and the downpour that came forth was awe-inspiring. Small rivers moved swiftly down either side of the street, and people raced to their destinations quicker than any horse could have taken them. It seemed just like the night that everything had started with Monkey, only worse. I just stared at the rain, it mesmerised me and gave some twinge of comfort.

"Hey, make some coffee, willya?" I asked, or rather ordered Monkey, she did so willingly. "And make it strong."

"McCain," she started softly. "How do you know that he's actually out of town? I mean, he didn't send a telegram to tell you where he was or anything, so he could be avoiding telling you or something."

"He doesn't wear a suit when he stays in New York. And he doesn't send telegrams, he handwrites a postcard. Can get it through faster and doesn't need to give his name for anything."

"Well, couldn't he use a fake name?"

"Look, it's just the way he operates, I dunno why he does the things he does, aight?"

"Sorry," she went back about her business.

I went and laid back down on the bed, curled into a ball. I wasn't going to sleep, just lay there. A loud, rough noise in the hallway outside the door changed my plans. I sat up and stared at my door, the sound came closer; someone walking rather quickly. The sound was right outside my door and I stood up from the bed and on the other side of the door, knife ready. McCartney looked at me worriedly. Whoever it was, they were coming here, and I wasn't sure if it was friend or foe. Monkey dropped what she was doing and hid alongside the sofa and I watched the doorknob turn rather forcefully and the door flew open. There was one person and I couldn't tell who, with a newspaper draped over his head for protection of the rain. Reaching behind, the figure closed the door, and I dropped my knife to the ground when he pulled the paper off with one hand that was lined in a drenched suit jacket. The other hand wasn't fed through the sleeve.

"Greyson!" I leaped on him in the tightest embrace possible. He pulled back wincing.

"Ay, watch it," He shouted.

"What's the matter?" Monkey came out of her hiding place and watched.

"I think I broke it," He pulled off his suit jacket, revealing a most definitely broken right arm cradled in a sling without any splint.

"Oh goodness, you're hand and arm are purple, didn't you get it looked at?" I questioned, sitting him down on the bed.

"I couldn't, not where I was. That's why I didn't write you, I couldn't," he confessed.

"You should have, it would have given you an alibi."

He looked at me and squinted his eyes, "Why would I need an alibi?"

"McCartney," she knew I meant the paper, and slapped it in my hand. "You murdered Dirk Galloway in Manhattan."

ch.19