"Jagger."
"I have to go."
"Don't hang up on me, you dramatic assho—"
I hang up.
The apartment is quiet. Too quiet. I can hear my heartbeat, my breathing, the roar of blood in my ears as I try to still my rapidly pounding heart. I can hear, faintly, the sound of pages turning in the library.
He's still reading.
I close the security feed and stare at the blank monitor. My reflection stares back, dark and hollow-eyed.
Werner Kreiss.
I have a lead. A real lead, for the first time in months of digging. I should be focused on that. Should be planning my next move, identifying his vulnerabilities, figuring out how to get to him without alerting the Custodians.
Instead, I'm thinking about the way Jonah's voice cracked when he came. The way he grabbed my shirt like I was the only solid thing in his world. The way he looked at me afterward, flushed and wrecked, and said "I don't think you're a monster."
He's wrong about that.
But God help me, I want him to keep believing it.
I push back from the desk. My legs are stiff from sitting too long, my neck aching from hunching over the keyboard. The clock on the wall says it's nearly four. I've been in this office for almost ten hours.
The hallway outside is dim, lit only by the pale winter light filtering through the windows at the far end. I walk toward the library, telling myself I'm just going to check on him. Make sure he's eating. That's basic asset management. That's strategy.
I'm halfway there when I smell garlic.
The kitchen. He's cooking again.
I follow the scent and find him at the stove, his back to me, humming something off-key while he stirs a pot. He's wearing my clothes again. A sweater that hangs off one shoulder, sweatpants rolled up at the ankles because they're too long. His feet are bare against the tile floor.
He looks comfortable. He looks like he belongs here.
"Are you going to stand there staring, or are you going to help?"
He hasn't turned around. Hasn't looked at me, and yet he knew I was there.
"I don't cook."
"Bullshit. I've seen your kitchen. No one owns that many pans without knowing how to use them." He glances over his shoulder, and there's something careful in his expression. "Come chop vegetables. It won't kill you."
"I have work to do."
"You've been working for ten hours. Your eyes look like two piss holes in the snow, and you're doing that thing where you stand completely still like a malfunctioning robot." He turns back to the stove. "Chop the onions. Consider it an order, since apparently that's the only language you understand."
I should leave. Should go back to my office and keep digging into Kreiss, keep building the case against Project Omega, keep doing the only thing I'm actually good at.
Instead, I cross to the cutting board where an onion is waiting, pick up the knife, and start chopping.
Jonah doesn't comment. Just keeps stirring, keeps humming that tuneless song. The domesticity of it is unbearable.
"I found something," I hear myself say. "In the archive."
"Yeah?" He doesn't look at me. "Something useful?"
"A name. Werner Kreiss. He's a financier. Geneva-based. Handles money for people who can't afford paper trails."
