"Name?" Static asks.
"Matthew Spencer. He's also an analyst at the CIA," Naomi says.
Something flares up in me, an immediate, primal response that has no business being there. Jealousy? Over what? A name? A man I've never met who works with her? Christ, I thought all the buck was out of this bronco, but I’m acting like a damn fool.
"Matthew Spencer," Static repeats, and I hear keyboard clicks in the background. "Might be easier just to meet him. He's flying from Virginia to Montana. Maybe to look for you?"
Static lets that question hang in the air. Naomi doesn't answer, but I notice her fingers tighten slightly on her knee.
"Well," Static continues after the silence stretches, "now there's going to be a layover in Colorado. And the second leg of his trip is going to be canceled, so he'll have to rent a car."
"You can do that?" Naomi asks, clearly shocked. She looks at me, eyes wide, seeking confirmation.
I simply nod.
"I sure can," Static says, sounding pleased with himself. "Oh, and you know how you'll talk about something, live, in person, and you'll suddenly get ads for it on the internet? That's me too."
Naomi turns to me, eyebrows raised in disbelief.
"I told you Static is an absolute magician with computers," I explain. "He’s also a complete wizard with bullshit."
"Hey, I resemble that remark," Static says with a digitally distorted chuckle. "Done. Can you make it to Denver International Airport by tonight?"
"It'll happen," I say, already calculating routes in my head.
"I'll work on finding your lost site."
"Thank you,"Naomi says sincerely.
"Yeah, Static, thank you," I add, and I hope he can hear what I'm not saying—I'm sorry for disappearing, for not reaching out sooner. For letting everything fall apart.
"You're welcome. It's good to see you, Walk. Been too long."
Before I'm forced to express any more feelings, something I'm about as good at as smiling for photos, Static cuts the transmission. The screen flickers, and suddenly, Naomi and I are staring at ourselves again.
"Better grab the photos," Naomi says softly.
I exit the booth with her and collect the strip of photos from the slot. I linger on the last image. No wide grins or forced poses. Just us looking at each other.
We look good together. Like we belong together. Like we fit.
And more than anything we might face in the coming days, that scares the hell out of me.
Thirteen
Logan
Logan Black stands in the vacant motel room, his senses precisely cataloging every detail. He moves deliberately through the space, nostrils flaring slightly. The room still carries the scent of a woman's shampoo and a man's sweat.
Logan examines the bed. Graves was right. Just two people.
Logan crouches in the bathroom, examining tiny specks of color around the drain. Hair dye residue. Brown. Smart but predictable.
But what interests him most is what isn't here. No toothbrushes left behind, no crumpled receipts, no food wrappers. They left in a hurry but were careful not to leave any signatures. Ms. Barrett’s attention to detail fits her profile, but whoever is with her understands operational security as well.
Logan moves to the window, peering out at the motel parking lot. The fire damage to the office is still visible. It was a clever distraction, but an unnecessary and foolish one. It didn’t raise any suspicions for the deputies who were here on aroutine warrant, but it was the screaming red flag that brought Logan here.
He steps back, assembling a mental profile. The woman remains predictable enough: an analyst turned fugitive, scared but resourceful. But her companion... Logan feels a strange tingle at the base of his skull.
