“See you next week, Wyatt.”
I set the phone down and look at Nikita, who’s watching me with judgmental yellow eyes.
“Don’t start,” I tell her.
I should call Chris. Warn him I’m coming. My thumb hovers over his contact, but I already know how it would go—silence, or worse, that tactical coldness he hides behind when he’s pretending Denver didn’t happen.
I set the phone down without calling.
Next week’s going to come whether I’m ready or not. I look around my apartment, mentally cataloging what needs to happen before I leave. Reports to file. Cases to hand off. My good suits are at the cleaners. At least I have time to do this right.
Nikita jumps onto the coffee table, settling into a loaf position where she can watch me without seeming interested.
“I’m not packing tonight,” I tell her. “We have a week.”
She slow-blinks at me—the closest thing to approval I’ll get.
LA next week. Nina next week. Probably Chris, too, lurking somewhere in the operational periphery.
The anticipation sits in my chest like a live wire, somewhere between anxiety and excitement. An electric awareness that everything’s about to shift again.
Nikita purrs, a low rumble that sounds almost like encouragement.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “Here we go.”
16
Chris
The diner in Koreatown doesn’t have a name, just a flickering neon sign that says “24 HOURS” in English and Korean. I chose it because it’s perfect—corner booth with sightlines to both exits, kitchen noise that covers conversation, and clientele who mind their own business at 11 PM on a Tuesday.
Tatiana slides into the booth across from me, pale eyes scanning the room once before settling. She’s changed since I cut her loose after the session and let her settle in at the safe house the Agency assigned her. She traded the careful professional attire for dark jeans and a leather jacket that makes her look like she could disappear into any crowd in Eastern Europe.
“Coffee?” I ask.
“Vodka would be better.” She picks up the laminated menu, grimaces at something, sets it down. “But coffee will do.”
I signal the waitress, who doesn’t look up from her phone as she approaches. We order two coffees, black. She’s ready with the pot, flips over and fills the two presumably clean mugs that were resting upside-down on saucers in front of us, then shuffles away without a word.
“So,” Tatiana says, leaning back. “Dr. Palmer. She’s smart.”
I don’t respond. She shifts forward and lifts her coffee, sniffs it cautiously.
“Very professional. Very... careful with her questions.” She’s watching me over the rim of her mug. “But you already knew that, didn’t you? From before.” She sips, wrinkles her nose, then sets the mug down.
“We’re not talking about this.”
“Why? Because it’s personal?” She smirks.
“How was your session?” I ask, voice flat.
She laughs. “It was fine. Dr. Palmer is very good at making you feel safe while she picks through your brain. I can see why your handlers value her.”
“I have access to the recordings,” I say. “But I haven’t reviewed them yet.”
“Why not?”
“Other priorities,” I say instead.
