She looks at me then, eyes darker than they were an hour ago.
“He came to tell me he’s playing again,” she says quietly. “He wanted me to know.”
My hands curl on my knees. “Then we make sure he regrets the invitation.”
A flicker of something almost like satisfaction crosses her face.
“That’s the spirit, Tiny Tim,” she says.
“Please don’t call me Tiny Tim.”
“Not you.” She waves a hand at the laptop. “Him. Our serial killer. You’re more…Big Tim.”
“Terrible,” I say.
“You’re welcome.”
Wespendthenexttwo hours establishing what I mentally file under “rules” and she files under “tyranny.”
Rule one. She doesn’t go anywhere alone. Not the coffee shop, not the sheriff’s office, not Karla’s, not the stupid storage unit she insists she needs to visit “sometime this week, maybe, no rush.”
Rule two. We route her camera alerts to my phone and to Jack’s. She grumbles but doesn’t fight it as hard as I expected once I show her how to encrypt the pipeline.
Rule three. When we go out, she listens to me. Period. If I say move, she moves.
“Do I get a safe word?” she asks.
“This isn’t a kink negotiation,” I say.
“You say that like you’ve never readFifty Shades,” she mutters.
I pretend I don’t hear that.
By mid-morning, the apartment has started to feel too small again. Tallulah’s attention starts to flicker, her leg bouncing hard enough to shake the coffee table.
“You’re going to rattle the screws loose,” I say.
“That would be a gift from God,” she says. “This table came from Goodwill in nineteen-seventy-eight, and it knows it.”
“I meant the screws in your brain, but still,” I say, “you need air.”
“I have air.” She gestures vaguely. “It’s right there. In the…atmosphere.”
“Outside,” I clarify. “Sunlight. Movement. You told Cotton she could come over. I heard you.”
She glares. “You eavesdrop now?”
“You text loud,” I say. “Get your boots. We’re going for a walk to Karla’s. Ten minutes out, ten back. We’ll sit by the window, you can watch people be stupid about powdered sugar.”
“That’s very judgey for someone who probably drinks protein shakes out of a blender bottle,” she says.
“I like donuts just fine,” I say, voice mild.
She stares. “You like donuts.”
“Yes.”
“You, Bran Kelly, Kael’s personal wrecking ball, like donuts.”
