The kitten, who has been watching from its perch on the pastry case, chirps with what I swear is amusement.
"Traitor," I mutter at it.
Grath picks up the cap, turning it over in his hands like he's trying to solve a puzzle. "Why do spies wear these?"
"To hide their faces," I explain, reaching for the cap again.
"From who?" He tilts his head, genuinely curious, like we're discussing the finer points of bread-making rather than basic surveillance techniques.
"From the people they're spying on." I try to settle the cap back onto his head at a different angle, but the proportions are simply wrong. His skull is too broad, the ridge of his brow too pronounced. The cap perches on top like a tiny roof on a cathedral.
"Won't they see us anyway?" He ducks his head to peer at me from under the crooked brim, which immediately sends it sliding sideways again.
I catch it before it falls, my fingers brushing against the rough texture of his hair. "Not if we're sneaky."
He looks at me. Really looks at me, his eyes dark and serious under the harsh overhead lights. "Maris. I am not sneaky."
"I know that." The admission comes out quieter, barely audible over the hum of the refrigerator units behind the counter.
"I am loud and big and people notice me everywhere I go." He says it matter-of-factly, without heat or bitterness, just stating an observable truth like he might comment on the weather or the color of the sky.
"I know that too." My throat feels tight.
He shifts his weight, the baseball cap still dangling from one massive hand, fabric stretched and misshapen from our attempts to make it fit. His gaze doesn't waver from mine. "So why would you want me to come with you on this thing? Why not ask someone who can hide?"
"Because I need you." The words come out sharper, raw and honest in a way that makes my chest tighten. "I can't do this alone. And you're. You're good at things I'm not. You're brave and protective and you don't second-guess yourself. So we'll figure out the sneaky part together. Okay?"
He goes still. The cap dangles from his fingers, forgotten.
Then he nods. Once. Firm and sure.
"Okay."
The stakeout plan is simple.Janelle's office sits above a small accountancy firm on the north edge of town, accessible by a fire escape that connects to the neighboring building's roof. We'll set up there, watch her comings and goings, and hopefully catch something incriminating.
In theory, it's foolproof. In practice, it's a masterclass in how badly two people can fail at something as simple as climbing a ladder.
"Stop stepping on my fingers," I hiss, trying to keep my voice low while simultaneously trying to keep all ten digits attached to my hands.
"Your fingers are in the way of my feet," Grath rumbles from directly above me, his massive boot descending toward my knuckles like some kind of medieval torture device.
"Because you're climbing too close to me." I flatten my hand against the rung, feeling the cold metal bite into my palm.
"There's only one ladder." He says this with the kind of patient logic that makes me want to kick him, except I'd probably lose my grip and plummet to my death, which would really ruin the whole reconnaissance mission.
"So wait until I'm higher up before you start climbing." My arms are already shaking from holding my weight. The rungs are slick with something I'm choosing not to identify.
Grath pauses, his boot hovering roughly an inch above my hand. I can see the worn tread, a nick in the leather near the toe. "How much higher?"
"More than one rung, Grath. Significantly more than one rung."
He shifts his weight, redistributing his considerable bulk, and the entire ladder creaks ominously. The sound echoes off the brick walls of the alley, a metal groan that seems to stretch on forever.
I freeze, every muscle in my body going rigid. "Don't move."
"You just told me to move," he points out, perfectly reasonable and perfectly infuriating.
"I changed my mind. Stay completely still. Don't even breathe."
