«Twice, in fact. They were in your letter thirteen years ago, doodled in the margin with no explanation. These precise numbers.» «I wrote that letter sixteen years ago. You just saw it thirteen years ago.» My correction made him raise his voice. «They were Kohaku Mardi’s last message. Written in Kohaku’s own blood, those exact numbers, not the killer’s name, not a farewell to their bash’ or me, just 33-67; 67-33; 29-71.» He rose, turned toward me. Suddenly his hands seemed large. «You tried to smear it out.»
