"Something like that."
"Man, that's depressing," he says, shaking his head. "You gotta live a little, you know? Find someone. Settle down. Have some kids."
I have a kid with the woman sitting in the backseat of this car, and he has no idea I exist at all.
"I'll keep that in mind," I grit out.
Otis misses the edge in my voice completely. "I'm telling you, once you find the right person, everything changes. Like, I used to think I was fine on my own, but then I met Maren and it was like—boom. You know? Like everything just clicked."
I don't respond.
He keeps talking anyway. The guy has negative social awareness.
The clinic appears fifteen minutes later, and I've never been more grateful to see a plain building in my life.
I pull into the gravel lot and kill the engine.
The small, stone-faced clinic sits quiet in front of us. I wonder if it's a legitimate doctor's office or someone Calder pays specifically for his use.
Otis's phone buzzes. He glances down, reading the message.
"Shit."
"Problem?"
"Supply run. Marchand needs me at the depot before they close, or we're not getting the shipment until next week." He's already unbuckling his seatbelt. "You good here on your own?"
I keep my expression flat, but I'm practically celebrating inside. "I think I can manage."
"Don't let her out of your sight," he says, trying to sound important.
I could break your neck in less than ten seconds.
"She's not going anywhere."
He climbs out, jogging around to the driver’s side. The engine turns over, and then he's pulling away, gravel spitting beneath the tires until the SUV rounds the corner and disappears.
Now we're alone.
No cameras. No second guard. No one watching, reporting, documenting every glance and gesture.
Just me and Keira.
I don't know why I'm suddenly nervous.
She doesn't look at me as she heads toward the clinic entrance. I fall into step three paces behind her, close enough to intervene if something goes wrong, far enough to maintain the fiction that I'm here on Calder's orders.
Inside, the air is thick with antiseptic and the cloying sweetness of artificial flowers—someone's failed attempt to make a sterile space feel welcoming. Plastic chairs line the walls in neat, soulless rows. A stack of magazines sits on the corner table, covers faded and corners dog-eared from countless patients.
Looks like a real doctor's office.
The receptionist glances up from her computer, checks Keira in, and tells her to take a seat.
I stay near the door.
"You can sit, you know." Keira's voice cuts through the quiet.
"I'm fine."
