He only asked questions when procedure required them—what did I want for lunch for example. The moment I answered, he nodded, thanked me politely—ma’aming me to death—then stopped speaking. Frankly, he had the personality of a brand-new dishrag. Too clean. Too perfect. Too… empty.
The clip went live at noon right as my lunch was delivered by another agent. This one at least bore the look of weathered experience. The sub sandwich with chips and a cold, unsweetened ice tea. I had to give my stomach a break from the coffee before it ate a hole through it.
I didn’t watch the clip or follow any of the notifications as they began to pop up—mostly when I was tagged. That restraint cost me more than I expected. I’d actually opened a game of Sodoku on my phone to distract myself and swiped the notifications off and away each time they showed up.
Turning them off wasn’t an option. Not when I needed to stay on top of the information.
By mid-afternoon—and level 355 on the game—my phone buzzed.
Deadline Daddy:
You alive?
I stared at the screen longer than necessary and had to swap to the message thread because I’d automatically just swiped the notification away. Giving myself a little shake, I blinked and typed in my answer.
Me:
Still breathing.
Dots appeared. Disappeared. Then?—
Deadline Daddy:
Reardon’s being twitchy. FBI has been in and out a few times today. You staying quiet on purpose or is someone gagging you?
That was Flint. Always seeing the board. Always impatient with silence.
Me:
Don’t worry. I’ve got a handle on it.
A beat.
Deadline Daddy:
Mallory.
I closed my eyes. The man knew me too damn well. I’d let my answer slip through a filter of tired. In focusing onnotreactingso hard, I’d actually given myself away. Mentally kicking myself, I blew out a breath.
Familiar and safe, Flint and I went back too far and for too long to worry aboutlyingto each other. I could call him ajackassand he could retaliate with a familiarbitchand we rolled with it. He had always been a safe choice. Attractive, intelligent, and wildly familiar with my habits. Very little that I did surprised him.
Considering our history, you’d have thought we were already lovers. The fact the thought crept out of the back of my mind told me I was way more off-kilter than I realized. Long before he’d been my boss, we’d covered wars together—literal and metaphorical. We knew each other’s tells, drank each other’s bad coffee, shared hotel rooms separated by a wall and a lifetime of unspoken lines.
He’d been married once. I’d known his ex-wife—well enough to understand why it hadn’t lasted. The same reason my one engagement hadn’t. The job didn’t just intrude. It consumed. And Flint had never learned how to set the story down.
Neither had I.
That was the problem.
Deadline Daddy:
Come on. Talk to me.
I stared at the message and sighed. We were better offnottalking for the moment. Especially if he was in the mood to call me out.
Deadline Daddy:
Look, I talked to Brandon. I get it. It’s only been a few days. We can work something out.
