“You think it was something else?” I push.
“You know what I think.” Alejandro doesn’t miss a beat. “I always think the Guildmaster’s behind shit. It’s never a bad bet.”
I lean in, elbows on the tiny table, voice lower. “They’re both phantoms, you know. The Guildmaster. El Fantasma. Nobody knows what either one looks like. No photos. No sightings. Not even rumor-level descriptions.”
He lifts a brow, waiting.
“So what if they’re not two people?” I say. “What if they’re the same person?”
Alejandro’s eyes flick to mine—quiet,unreadable. He doesn’t confirm. Doesn’t deny. Just lets the thought hang between us like a suspended blade before he looks away for a moment.
Then I notice he isn’t really listening.
His attention is drifting past me.
I follow his line of sight.
A woman across the aisle is making eyes at him. Overtly. Hair toss, lip bite, smolder—the whole ridiculous package. My jaw tightens. “Does that shit actually ever work?”
Alejandro catches my tone instantly and a slow grin cuts across his mouth.
“Oh? Is the infamous Saint James jealous?”
I scoff. “Please. Jealous of what? You? Absolutely not.”
“Uh-huh.” He laughs under his breath. “Keep watching, Picarita.”
He stands. Walks several tables back, past the woman, to take a plate from a train attendant, thanking them in Spanish.
And the woman across the aisle keeps staring.
Only… she isn’t staring at him.
She’s making eyes at Skippy.
The corpse.
My mouth falls open. “Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
Alejandro turns back, holding a plate absolutely devoid of anything with legs. Fruit, a cheese quesadilla, a cup of yogurt. He sets it in front of me like he planned it all along.
“For you,” he says. “They didn’t have a large selection.”
I look from him, tothe plate, to the woman flirting with a dead man.
“You know what?” I mutter. “I take back everything I said. People are fuckinginsane.”
The sleeping-car doors hiss open, dumping us into a narrow hallway that feels about three inches too tight for two people and one dead man. We take the very last compartment on the far end. Smart choice. If we need a fast exit or Saint’s coworkers decide to start a fight, at least we won’t snap this train in half.
The walk is a nightmare. Our very dead, very bloated travel companion slumps between us, feet dragging, shirt leaking through the spare jacket we shoved on him back at Grim’s. The jacket hides most of the mess and keeps innocent commuters from screaming about the smell of—well—death marinated in high-speed chases.
I lower him to the carpeted floor of our compartment, mutter something that might be a prayer or a curse, and go hunting for supplies. Anything. A few feet down the hall I check over my shoulder to be sure Saint didn’t follow me and pull out my phone.
Still no message from my broker.
Maybe less communication right now is better. I text the Chicago business name and Skippy’s real name.
Vincenzi Tower and Owen Liang.
