"I'm stuck in a book and you're stuck in a life."
"Something like that."
"At least we're stuck together." She says it lightly, like a joke, but the look in her eyes is anything but light, and the space between us—across the folding table, between the vending machine wrappers—feels impossibly small.
My phone buzzes. Channel 16.
Riggs: morning, lovebirds. how was the slumber party?
Decker: Storm's weakening. ETA 24 hrs for road clearance.
Calder: Tucker, status on Hartwell.
I type a quick update, pocket the phone. When I look up, Kassidy is watching me with an expression caught between amusement and something else—something that makes her eyes darker and her breathing slightly uneven.
"Your team again?"
"Calder wants a Hartwell update."
"Is that all they wanted?"
"Riggs wanted to know about the slumber party."
She covers her face with both hands. "Oh God."
"He's harmless."
"He's going to think we?—"
"We didn't."
"I know we didn't."
"Then it doesn't matter what Riggs thinks."
She drops her hands, and her face is flushed—from embarrassment or something else—and we stare at each other across the remnants of our vending machine picnic. The moment stretches, taut and warm, and somewhere in my chest, a decision starts to form. Not about the job. Not about Salt & Steel or civilian life or purpose. About her.
"Kassidy."
"Yeah?"
The word is almost a whisper. She's leaning forward, just slightly, and her lips are parted, and the rain fills the silence between us like a held breath.
My phone erupts. Not a text—a call. Calder.
"Brennan."
"We've got a development. One of Hartwell's staff found a letter slipped under her door. Same handwriting as the previous threats. I need you on her floor in five."
The world snaps back into focus. Mission. Principal. Threat. "Copy. Moving now."
I stand, and Kassidy's expression shifts from something soft and open to something guarded. The moment is gone—whatever it was, wherever it was going—replaced by the reality that I'm here to do a job.
"I have to go. Hartwell situation."
"Go." She waves a hand, but her voice is thin. "Go. I'll be here. With my sad muffins."
At the door, I turn back. She's sitting in the conference room with rain streaking the windows behind her, hands wrapped around a paper cup of bad coffee, and she looks like the opening scene of every book she's ever written.
