The story wasn’t finished. I told Mara there was a gap, that’s true. But I told her that before our fight, before I stopped sharing. And the way I described it to Mara was “something’s off” and “something’s missing.” I didn’t say the story wasn’t finished.
Tommy is either paraphrasing loosely, or he got information from someone other than Mara.
“Yeah,” I say. Casual. “It’s frustrating. But I’ll figure it out.”
“I’m sure you will. You seem like the type who doesn’t give up.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
He laughs. We reach the edge of the neutral zone and he stops. “This is where I peel off. Supply room calls.” He gives me a look, warm, and concerned. “Take care of yourself, Vi. And seriously, if you need to talk, I’m here for you, no agenda, just an ear.”
Fuck you, man.
“Thanks.”
He nods, walks off toward the west corridor, and disappears into the traffic.
I stand there.
The story wasn’t finished.
I’m not an idiot. I know how information travels in the Rot. People talk. Gossip is a favorite pastime since there’s not much else to do, and information is always power. When things work that way, they get distorted. Mara could have said anything to Tommy in any number of conversations, and by the time itreached his mouth, it could have morphed into gaps plural and unfinished stories. That’s how gossip works. You say one thing, the other person hears something else.
But.
There’s a but. A small one. A hum.
Tommy knows things about my situation that feel like more than secondhand gossip from Mara or anybody else. He’s got a level of detail and a way of framing it that doesn’t quite match what Mara would have told him, especially since Mara doesn’t know the details anymore. I stopped telling her.
So where’s he getting it?
Maybe nowhere. Maybe I’m reading into things because I just had a shitty non-conversation of my life with Sting, and my brain is in overdrive. Maybe Tommy is exactly what he seems, a lonely man who listens to Mara, paraphrases loosely, and offers his ear to others.
Or not.
My first instinct is to tell Sting. Which is funny, considering I just walked out on him. I’m not about to go back to the man who sat there like a statue while I poured my guts out and say “Hey, I think your logistics guy might be shady.” That’s not happening. Not today. Maybe not ever.
If something’s off about Tommy, I’ll figure it out myself. I’ve been figuring things out myself since I got here. Why stop now.
I walk back to my room and sit on the bed.
The frustration from this morning is fading and what’s replacing it is more complicated. I’m furious at Sting. I’m also in love with him, or something close to it, which is inconvenient, stupid, and true. I’m in love with Armen’s steadiness and Rogue’s joy and Sting’s broken, stubborn, infuriating intensity. I’m in love with the way the three of them built something real in a dead mall and invited me into it, even if they’re not so good at the parts that require actual words.
I didn’t come to the Rot looking for this. I came looking for my father and somehow ended up with three men who drive me crazy in completely different ways, a best friend who’s talking to a guy I don’t trust, and a dead father’s unfinished papers spread across the floor of my room.
It’s a lot. Maybe too much. And I wouldn’t trade it. That’s the part that gets me. Even sitting here, post-fight, with Sting’s silence still ringing in my ears, I wouldn’t trade any of it.
Two men on my mind right now. One who won’t talk. One who talks just a little too much.
Something’s off—and whatever it is, I’m not looking away until I find it.
57
VI
There’sa knock on my door around seven. It’s not Sting’s knock. He knocks once, hard, like the door personally offended him. This knock is lighter. Playful. Two taps and a pause.
Rogue.
