Of all the things he had expected - all the possible scenarios he had run through his mind - it had never occurred to him that she wouldn't recognize him if ever he saw her again. When there was no spark of recognition in her eyes, the shock gave way to a cold, gripping horror.

Perhaps it was the disguise, he told himself hastily. Perhaps she simply hadn't cottoned on to the clues, perhaps she hadn't seen his communique, perhaps, in spite of all her assurances that she would know him anywhere, he was disguised too well.

But why was she so cheerful? The idea that she might be happy here, happy to be shot of him, hurt more than the idea that he might never see her again. At least in the latter scenario, he had imagined she might show some regret before moving on. At least a few months, and not a few days.

He closed the distance between them and dropped the affected accent. Aggravated with her as much as the situation, he hissed, "It's me, Martha."