Scott nodded his understanding. “My dad was a carpenter. I wanted to be an engineer.” He scoffed. “Those two aren’t as different as I once imagined, really. My sophomore science project was a comparison of the load-bearing capacity of three different types of bridges.” His voice filled with pride. “I used to eat that shit up. I spent months researching and building bridges and consulting with my teacher. She thought I had a good chance of placing in my division.”
Valerie ignored her computer, lapping up every morsel about his youth like a cat with milk. “Did you?”
“I didn’t enter.” Scott’s face remained impassive, but his voice had a hard edge.
“Why not?”
The desperate look of anger and hurt that flashed in his eyes sent a chill down her spine. “My dad destroyed my project.”
“Oh, God.” Her hand flew to her mouth. “I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah, well.” He shrugged and shifted his gaze, returning his attention to their surroundings.
Her heart ached for him, but he had put up his walls again. Forcing herself to focus on the computer, she posted a message.
SPYDRCH1C4: @BLACKBARD Do you like flowers?
Scott’s hand on her shoulder made her jump. “You’re nothing like him,” he said softly. “Your dad.”
Tears burned the back of her eyes, catching her by surprise. She thought she’d mastered that urge years ago. “That’s not how the rest of the world sees it.”
Yuck. When had she turned sulky and whiny?
“They will.”
If only she shared his confidence. She knew how easy it was to ruin someone. Even if she and Scott proved their innocence, the stain of everything that happened—the doubts—would be on them forever.
Think positive,mija.She could almost hear her dad’s voice, and the tears pricked again.
All Valerie could do was nod.
Scott removed his hand, leaving behind a warm imprint. “So, Blackbard?”
Grateful for the redirect, she swallowed and took a deep breath. “Yeah. Sort of a play on pirates and poets.”
A young man with brassy blond swimmer’s hair who’d been pushing a mop around the tile floor—rather ineffectively to her eye—moved within several feet of their table. He couldn’t see her screen since she had her back to the wall, but her heart sped up.
“I like the garage on this one,” Scott said without missing a beat. “It’s big enough to fit the motorcycle too.”
She parted her lips and furrowed her brow. “You promised to get rid of the bike.”
His sheepish expression was so on point, she almost forgot they were faking. “Well, yeah, when I thought we wouldn’t have room for it. But if we got that place…” He gestured vaguely toward her computer.
A message popped up on the monitor.
BLACKBARD: @SPYDRCH1C4 Daisies. A dozen white.
“I just worry about you,” she said as the kid with the mop worked slowly away from their table without even looking at them. Dip, wring, splat, swirl, repeat. “You know what happened to my brother.”
Scott hooked an arm around her shoulders and pulled her in close, dropping a kiss on her forehead before she even knew what was happening. “I know. Just think about it, okay?”
Her brain buzzed from the contact even though he’d already released her. Through the fog, she processed her old friend’s response.
Once the mop boy was out of range, she said, “We’re meeting him in the Botanical Building at Balboa Park at noon.”
Scott knew how to be idle. The most important quality of a sniper wasn’t good aim, it was patience. He had a deeper well than most.
Waiting to meet with Valerie’s friend of dubious moral character—as if he were one to judge—gave him time to establish a baseline for the café’s activity, time to take measure of its normal pace and tempo and mood. And keep track of its customers.
