It was her day off. Diane found herself sitting in Grand Central Station, studying a small key in her hand. She turned it over and over, like a worry stone, and chanted the number on it to herself in a mantra of indecision, "Two thirteen...two thirteen." The loud but garbled announcements that came over the antiquated PA system did nothing to break her concentration. In fact, the constant drone of noises only served to make her more isolated. Crowds passed and people sat down next to her. When they got up to leave and others took their places, she was oblivious. Her focus had entirely narrowed to the tiny piece of metal in the palm of her hand, and the text of a letter just opened this morning.

Why she finally read Harry's letter she never knew.

For months it sat in a drawer near the couch like the telltale heart from Poe's maudlin story. Today, without thinking, she had awakened early and sat down with her coffee to read the paper, when an overwhelming urge caused her to open the drawer. The minute she broke the seal and removed the paper she caught a faint trace of his scent. The Aramis he always wore had permeated the letter somehow, maybe by intent. And just as her blood began to rise, the key dropped out of the corner of the envelope and onto her lap, catching her eye with its dull glint.

"What the..." she whispered, taking up the key and quickly determining that it fit something small like a suitcase or locker. Her pulse picked up in tempo as she closed her fist around the small gift from Harry. Placing her coffee carefully on the side table, she shakily held the letter and read:

Dear Diane,

It's been said that life is like a superhighway, with bewildering cloverleaf exits on which a man is liable to find himself speeding back in the direction he came. By attempting to navigate this superhighway while driving drunk, I've damaged others, including you. I apologize for that, but I won't regret involving you.

As I cannot repair the past, I can only make amends by offering what I can to help you untangle what you do not yet know. You have assumed the worst about me all along, no doubt, and I suppose for good reason. What is irritating about love is that it is a crime that requires an accomplice. If I have appeared to take delight in taunts and games, I must now confess, it has all been a competition to be the criminal rather than the victim.

If the whole story would bring you any additional peace of mind, Diane, I am willing to give it to you. This key opens a locker with the corresponding number at Grand Central Station. If questions still haunt your dreams, and the IAB is still threatening, then this may suffice.

In truth, I have always been yours,

Harry