We didn't move for a long time.
When I finally opened my eyes, I was staring directly into the face of a yellowtail damselfish.
It was the small tank on his nightstand—a quarantine setup he used for new arrivals—six inches from my head. The fish stared at me with the flat, unblinking judgment of a creature that had just witnessed everything and found it unremarkable.
"Your fish is looking at me."
Kieran's laugh was quiet and wrecked. "That's Wendell. He doesn't care."
"He looks like he cares. He looks like he's filing a report."
"He's a damselfish. He's territorial about his rock. You're not on his rock."
"I feel like I'm on his rock."
Kieran pressed his lips to my shoulder. He was smiling against my skin. "You're on my bed. That's not in his jurisdiction."
We rearranged. I ended up with my head against Kieran's chest, my ear over his heart and his arm around my shoulders. Wendell continued his vigil from the nightstand, unimpressed.
My body was quiet for the first time all day. The math was still there—twenty-six thousand—but it no longer shouted in my ear. I closed my eyes.
Sleep took me all at once. One breath I was listening to Kieran's heartbeat and the next I was under.
Somewhere in the crossing—somewhere between awake and gone—I registered that Kieran's fingers had stopped moving.
I slept.
He didn't.
Chapter fourteen
Kieran
My father never called ahead when it mattered.
His text arrived at 3:50 PM, twenty minutes after practice ended, while I was still in my stall pulling tape off my fingers.
Dad:In Chicago. Dinner tonight. Trevere, 7:30. Reservation's under my name.
Not a question. A coordinate and a time.
He'd likely planned it days ago and timed the reveal for after practice, when saying no would require more effort than I was ready to expend.
Kieran:See you there.
The restaurant had tables spaced for the conversations that happened between courses. It smelled faintly of white truffle and money. Someone who understood that powerful men preferred to be seen clearly while remaining difficult to read had designed the lighting.
Patrick Mathers wore retirement like he wore a hockey jersey. At fifty-four, he had silver hair at the temples. His shoulders still filled a sport coat.
He stood when I approached. The hug was firm and duration-appropriate.
"You look good. Sharp."
"Thanks. You too."
The wine he'd ordered before I sat down arrived. After five sentences of chit-chat, he kicked off his agenda.
"The line with Donnelly. That's working."
