“Rowan says you’re the best he’s ever worked with.” Pride threads through her praise. “He can’t stop talking you up. It’s honestly getting a little disgusting.”
Heat crawls up my neck at the thought of Rowan discussing me with my sister. “He exaggerates.”
“Does not.” She tears open a sugar packet, stirring it into her drink. “My brother is the coolest, and Rowan knows it.”
“Shush,” I tell her, my cheeks heating.
By the time we get back to the car, the parking lot has emptied, making it easy to escape the school building without having to wait in line. It also makesit easy to spot the marked cruiser idling at the far edge of the lot, engine running.
Same department insignia. Same model. Third time this month.
It doesn’t move as we pull out. It doesn’t need to. Message delivered.
I don’t look at Lena or draw her attention to the vehicle as I signal and merge into traffic.
The longer Danny’s files stay missing, the more incentive the Vartanians have to clean up anything tied to him.
The drive home takes us through neighborhoods we once couldn’t afford to enter, snow dusting the trees that line the avenue. Lena points out holiday decorations in shop windows, her excitement childlike despite her sixteen years.
At the loft, Lena settles at the kitchen island with her homework while I pull ingredients from the refrigerator. The routine comes naturally after two months, domestic in a way I never imagined for myself.
The kitchen fills with the scent of sautéing garlic and onions as I prepare pasta sauce from scratch. No more ramen or eggs for dinner. No more calculating how to stretch a single pound of ground beef across four meals.
“What’s the derivative of sine?” Lena asks, pencil tapping her textbook.
“Cosine.” I stir the sauce, adding fresh basil from the plant Rowan keeps in the kitchen window. “Need me to check your work when you’re done?”
She shakes her head, already scribbling equations. “Nope. Just needed a reminder.”
While the pasta boils, I check my email on Rowan’s tablet. Most messages are related to work, with security system inquiries, supply orders, and installation schedules.
Buried among them sits an email from our old building manager, with the subject line reading:
RE: Unit 5B Available for Return—Repairs Complete.
My finger hovers over the message. The building where we spent so much time struggling to survive, with sleep interrupted by gunshots and police sirens, wants us back.
Two months ago, this email would have been a lifeline, an escape route if our arrangement with Rowan soured.
Now, it sits in my inbox like a relic from another life.
Lena frowns. “What’s wrong?”
I close the email, setting the tablet aside. “Junk mail.”
Her pencil pauses mid-equation, eyes narrowing with sisterly intuition. “You’ve got that face.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The one where you’re calculating risks.” She sets her pencil down. “Are we in trouble?”
The question catches me off guard. “No. Why?”
“Because that’s when you always make that face.” She studies me, searching for signs of the lie. “Are you sure everything’s okay? You and Rowan are good?”
“Everything’s fine.” I return to the stove, stirring pasta that doesn’t need stirring. “Better than fine.”
She accepts this with surprising ease, returning to her calculus. The moment passes, but her question lingers in my mind as we eat dinner, as we clean up together, and as Rowan returns home, joining us for the movie Lena insists we watch.
