Rupert.
Of course.
Good morning, team! Quick reminder: Our bus departs at 12:45 sharp for Santa Clara Q&A. Please be in lobby NO LATER THAN 12:30. Media hit is VERY TIME-SENSITIVE. No side quests today, please.
The message had been sent to all of them, even though Andi and Duke would be driving themselves.
Three seconds later, another bubble appeared.
More Rupert.
Also, Andi, SafeStride would LOVE a quick mention during your intro if possible. Just one line about how “you never walk alone.” We can workshop wording later. Remember, they have a rep joining us on tour soon. The owner is a big fan.
Her jaw clenched. She could almost see him, perched at some hotel business center computer, schedule spreadsheets open like battle plans, utterly unfazed by the idea that somewhere in this city a woman might be running out of time.
“Side quests,” she muttered. “Because clearly the missing woman is the problem, not his overinflated schedule.”
She typed back before she could overthink it:
We’ll be there. Can’t promise ad copy for SafeStride right now. Busy looking for a real person.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Before Rupert could reply, Duke reached over and gently squeezed Andi’s knee. His touch steadied her, and she drew in a slow breath.
“Only three more weeks, and we never have to see him again,” Duke reminded her.
She exhaled a breath that was half laugh, half sigh. “You promise?”
“On my honor as a former CID investigator and reluctant energy drink mascot.”
She glanced at him. The corner of his mouth lifted, but his eyes stayed serious. That combination—dry humor over steel—never failed to untangle some of the knots inside her.
But what was he keeping from her? And why?
“Three weeks,” she repeated. “I can survive three weeks.”
“And if not, we’ll fake your death and move you back to Fairbanks under an assumed name.”
She let out a biting chuckle. “I’m starting to think that sounds appealing.”
The phone buzzed again. Andi didn’t look.
Instead, she flicked the tab on the Yukon Yeti can, listening to it hiss open.
Duke raised an eyebrow.
“I’m not drinking it,” she rushed. “I just want Rupert to see it’s open in case he somehow has eyes in the parking lot.”
She let a bit of the neon liquid fizz up, then set the can back in the holder, untouched.
“You’re terrifying when you weaponize passive aggression,” Duke said.
“What can I say? When you combine years of legal training with a deep, abiding hatred of minty citrus flavored caffeine that practically glows in the dark, it can be toxic.”
Duke chuckled.
As he did, his phone buzzed.
