The bell rang at eight fifty-three.
Damian was behind the counter when it did. He'd been standing there for eleven minutes, which he knew because he'd watched the clock in the way people watched clocks when they were trying not to think about what they were waiting for.
Kendrick came through the door and stopped.
He looked at Damian. Then at the envelope on the counter between them.
Then back at Damian.
He didn't say anything yet.
Neither did Damian.
The shop was empty — first customer wouldn't come for another twenty minutes on a Friday morning, and the owner was in the back office with the door closed the way she kept it when she understood something was happening that wasn't her business.
Kendrick crossed to the counter.
He looked at the envelope.
"Richard," he said.
"Yes."
He picked it up. Turned it over. Set it back down without opening it.
"You already read it," he said.
"Last night."
"How long have you had it."
Damian said nothing.
