I was rethinking everything. Every memory of our yearly trips. Every time Logan wouldn’t let me hang out with him and Tristan. I’d thought he was keeping me away from them. But what if he wasn’t? What if Logan was keepingTristanaway from me?
They werealwaystogether.
I scanned every memory, seeking a time that Logan was actually happy during those trips. I couldn’t find one. I’d thought he was annoyed at me for wanting to be with them. Maybe he was tense for a different reason.
I should have noticed.
I should have helped him.
Selfish.
I turned in bed. My shoulder throbbed. My hip ached.
His hands were still on me.
I pulled the covers off and got dressed in clothing that pressed and itched in all the wrong places.
And I went to work.
The lobby and bottom floors of Lorens Industries were busier on a Saturday, with members of the public shopping or scoping out the latest products, but it was much quieter in the offices and labs.
Only workaholics or those with projects on tight deadlines were here.
My father was probably here.
With any luck, I wouldn’t have to see him.
I’d taken more painkillers than recommended, and they allowed me to force myself to walkalmostnormally.
I made my way to the labs first, determined to sort out what Coyote had asked me for so I could stop feeling like he had something over me. Putting a tracker in a lighter was worth significantly less than burying a body, but it was a starting point.
The hardware and prototyping labs were always at least a little chaotic. Work benches were equipped with soldering stations, oscilloscopes, and various other devices I had no reason to know the purposes of. Projects and half-assembled devices at multiple stages of completion lived in sealed and barcoded storage trays, and 3D printers hummed from dedicated bays.
It was quiet enough that I thought maybe no one was around, but then I heard humming from a station toward the back.
A woman was hunched over the bench, frizzy brown hair tied in a messy bun with three pens stabbed through it. She hummed to herself loudly enough that she didn’t hear me approaching until I was right behind her.
“Christ!” She jumped, holding her hand over her chest. “Ya almost gave me a heart attack.” She laughed. “Sorry, Mr. Lorens, what can I do for you?”
Her Boston accent and deep brown eyes reminded me of someone I couldn’t afford to think about right now.
“Just Harper is fine.” I hated being called Mr. Lorens. That was how my father liked to be addressed. I pulled the lighter from my pocket. “I need a tracker put in this.”
She took it from me, opening it up and closing it again as she examined it. “Does it need to be functional as a lighter still?”
Coyote hadn’t specified. “If possible.”
She made a pensive noise. “We could use one of the old prototypes from Project Echo-12. Nixed due to battery life, but still functional and app compatible.”
“How long would it last?”
She scratched her head with a pen as she thought. “Couple months either side of a year… most likely.”
I nodded. “How long would it take you?”
A fourth pen was nested into the messy bun as she pulled a tray of tools closer to her. “Couple of hours. I’ll start now.”
“Good. Thanks.” I turned to leave.
