"He's making a scene," Sienna says calmly. "Let him."
"That's not helping?—"
"Isn't it?"
But then Grath steps back. Holds up his hands in a gesture that's clearly visible to every camera pointed at him.
"I'm not threatening you," he says loudly. "I'm just asking a question. Why sabotage a petition that was trying to save local businesses? What did you have to gain?"
The assistant sputters, his face going blotchy with indignation. He tries to push past Grath, one hand fumbling forhis car door handle, but Grath doesn't move. Doesn't touch him—just stands there, solid as a wall, waiting.
Someone in the crowd shouts, "Answer him!" A woman's voice, sharp and demanding. I can't see who.
Another voice joins in, deeper this time. "Yeah, what's your deal? You got something to hide?"
Then more voices. A murmur that builds into actual questions, actual outrage. The crowd isn't dispersing. They're turning on the assistant instead.
The assistant's face goes red. He yanks open his car door and practically dives inside. The engine roars to life and he peels away from the curb, nearly clipping a parked bike.
The crowd erupts in mutters and speculation, a ripple of voices that grows louder and more animated with each passing second. People pull out their phones, already typing, already spreading whatever narrative feels most dramatic. I can practically see the social media posts forming in real time.
Grath stands there for a moment, solid and unmoving amid the chaos he's just created. His shoulders are still tense, his hands loose at his sides. He's breathing hard—I can see the rise and fall of his chest even from here, through the smudged glass of the café window.
Then he sees me.
Our eyes meet across the distance, across the shifting bodies of the crowd and the glare of afternoon sunlight on glass.
His expression is unreadable at first. Something shuttered and careful. Guarded in a way I haven't seen from him before, not since those first awkward days when he barely looked at me, when every word felt like he was testing whether I'd flinch.
There's a question in his eyes. Or maybe a plea. I can't tell which.
I want to go to him. Want to push through the door and cross the street and tell him, what? That I saw what he did? That I'm grateful? Terrified? Both?
But I don't move.
And maybe he sees that hesitation. Maybe that's what it does.
Because then he turns and walks the other direction. Back toward his rowhouse, his stride long and purposeful, his broad shoulders cutting through the lingering crowd like a ship through water.
Not toward me.
Not toward the café.
Away.
That night,I discover Pebble is missing.
I tore apart the café three times. Checked every cabinet, every shelf, every stupid hiding spot I've found her in over the past few weeks.
Nothing.
She's gone.
Panic tastes like copper. Like the moment before you fall, when your stomach drops and your lungs forget how to work and everything inside you seizes up with the knowledge that impact is inevitable and approaching fast.
I call Grath first. Not Sienna. Not the community board. Not even the emergency number I've got saved for the local shelter.
Grath.
