Shane noticed immediately.
"Okay, Torres." He set down his coffee mug with exaggerated patience. "Spill."
"Spill what?"
"You look like someone just told you Christmas is coming early. What's going on?"
I tried to school my expression into something neutral. Failed completely.
"Ava and I are going to look for an apartment together."
Silence.
Shane's eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. Garrett, who had materialized silently behind us as usual, went very still.
"FINALLY!" Shane's grin split his face. "It's about damn time."
"Congratulations," Garrett said, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth.
"It's not?—"
"Looking for an apartment together already?" Shane clapped me on the shoulder. "You two sure move fast."
"It's been four years," Garrett interrupted. "You should move that fast."
"It's not like that." I lowered my voice, glancing around to make sure no one else was in earshot. "We're going to be roommates. For her safety."
Shane's grin faded. Garrett's eyes sharpened.
"Her safety?" Shane's voice dropped. "What's going on?"
I told them everything. Kevin Lang's overdose and delirious confession. The threats against Ava. The keyed car, the break-in, the spray-painted message. The investigation stalled because the Langs had connections everywhere.
When I finished, Shane's expression was dark.
"That's serious."
"What has the NYPD done?" Garrett asked.
"They're investigating. But it's slow going. The councilman's reach is extensive."
"Who's the detective handling it?"
"Diaz. Out of the 114th."
Shane's expression shifted. Recognition, and something like relief. "Diaz is good. She handled the Tommy Vickers arson case. Remember?"
I remembered. The serial arsonist who'd burned down six public schools across the district, including the one where Mayataught. Tommy Vickers had been one of her students a decade ago. A kid who'd fallen through every crack the system had. Bounced between foster homes, aged out with nothing, came back to burn down the places he felt had failed him.
Maya had found him inside that night and tried to talk him down. Shane had run into the flames and pulled them both out.
"If anyone can make this stick," Shane said, "she can."
"Hopefully."
"Hopefully isn't good enough." Garrett's voice was flat. His arms were crossed, his jaw tight. The posture of a man who'd already started calculating angles, running scenarios.
I didn't have an answer for that. Neither did anyone else.
