Peter would do what Peter always did—cross-reference it, flag it, build a file. It would reach Ian. It would reach the broader team. And Fallon would stop being a woman Isaac was trying to understand and become a case number in Zodiac’s system.
He wasn’t ready for that. The reason sat in a place he didn’t want to examine too closely. Some part of him—the same part that had let her walk out with his watch last night—wanted tokeep this his. His puzzle. His problem. His to figure out before anyone else got their hands on it.
“See if the Austin footage gives you a clean enough image to run,” he said. “I still don’t have a last name.”
“I’ll work it. Anything else?”
“That’s it for now. And Peter—just between us for now. In case this is nothing.”
Peter studied him through the screen. Whatever he saw, he kept his questions to himself. “You got it.”
The call ended. Isaac sat with the blank screen for a long moment, Fallon’s face springing to his mind.
Four months. He’d woken up in that Boston hotel room reaching for her before his eyes were open. His hand had found cool sheets and an empty pillow, and he’d known before he was fully conscious that she was gone.
Not in the bathroom. Not getting coffee. Gone.
He’d lain there for a while. The room had smelled like hotel soap and sex, and the indent in the pillow beside him was still there, and he’d stared at it like it owed him something.
He’d had one-night stands before. He knew how those felt the morning after—satisfying, uncomplicated, already fading. This one hadn’t faded. The weight of her against him in the shower. The sound she’d made when he’d found the right angle. Herokaywhen he’d asked her to stay—quick and unguarded, like the word had slipped out before she could catch it. And then she’d left anyway.
He still didn’t know what kept him up at night—theokayor the empty bed.
He closed the laptop.
The outer door banged open hard enough to hit the wall behind it.
“Jesus Christ.” Ryder Sutton’s voice carried from the hallway before the rest of him appeared in the doorframe. He stoodthere, duffel bag over one shoulder, sunglasses pushed up on his head, looking at the rental office like it owed him money. “This shithole is where we work?”
“Welcome to paradise.”
“This isn’t paradise. This is where paradise comes to die.”
Ryder walked in and did a slow turn. The main room had four desks, none of which matched. A coffee maker that looked like it had survived a fire. A window that faced the alley. Fluorescent lights overhead that buzzed at a frequency designed to erode the human will to live.
“Hell Baxter, I’ve slept in shipping containers that had more charm than this.”
“It’s temporary.”
“So is food poisoning. Doesn’t mean you enjoy it.” Ryder dropped his duffel on the nearest desk and opened a drawer. Stared into it. Closed it. “There’s a dead cockroach in that drawer.”
“Don’t use that drawer.”
“Wasn’t planning on it.” He pulled out the desk chair, inspected the seat, and sat down with the expression of a man lowering himself into a cold bath. “Ian know about this place?”
“Ian approved this place.”
“Ian DeRose has never been to this place. His billionaire self would take one look at it then promptly relocate to the Four Seasons.”
They both knew that wasn’t true about Ian. Yeah, the man may have more money than many small countries, but he didn’t mind getting dirty. “Maybe I’ll invite him so we can get an upgrade.”
Ryder leaned back. The chair groaned under him. “I’m going to need a better coffee maker. And a chair that isn’t trying to kill me. And possibly a tetanus shot.”
Isaac almost smiled. Ryder ran hot on first impressions and cooled down fast. By tomorrow he’d have the coffee maker replaced, the cockroach drawer taped shut, and a system for everything. That was how he operated—complain first, fix second, never mention it again. At the end of the day, he was hell of an operative.
“Glad you’re here,” Isaac said. And meant it.
Ryder’s face shifted. The theatrics dropped, and what was underneath was steady and ready. “Brief me.”
