Chapter Three
Fallon Hemingway had been sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor for twenty minutes because the chair made her hip ache and the couch was too far from the outlet where her laptop was charging.
There wasn’t much to look at from down here. This sublet was barely furnished. It had a couch that sagged in the middle and a kitchen table with two chairs that didn’t match. Through the open doorway, she could see the bedroom—a mattress on a platform frame and curtains she’d bought herself because the ones that came with the place let in too much light.
Yeah, it was shit. But it was also fine. She didn’t need much.
Her phone was propped against the base of the table leg, No-Last-Name Cassandra’s voice filling the kitchen on speaker.
“The neighborhood’s good for you. Quiet, mostly residential, good public transit access. I pulled up your building on street view and it looks like there’s a coffee shop two blocks north that has decent Wi-Fi if you need a backup workspace.”
“Already found it.” Fallon shifted her weight off her left hip, extending her leg out straight along the tile. “Their oat milk lattes are terrible, but the internet is fast.”
“That’s all that matters. How’s the setup otherwise? You getting settled?”
“Getting there. I’ve got my workstation up. Ordered a second monitor yesterday. The lighting in here is garbage for color-accurate work, but I can manage until I find something better.”
“I can send you a link for the light panel I use. Clips right onto the desk, and the color accuracy is solid.”
“Please. That would be amazing.”
“Sent. Check your email.” A brief pause, the sound of typing. “What about the rest of it? You eating actual food, or are you doing that thing where you survive on coffee and whatever’s closest to the front of the fridge?”
“I bought groceries.”
“Groceries, plural? Like a full trip?”
“I got eggs. And bread. And some of that pre-made soup from the deli section.”
“That’s not groceries. That’s a cry for help.”
“It’s a start.”
Normally, Fallon wouldn’t tolerate this sort of mother-henning. But this was the rhythm for her and Cassandra. Had been for years. Two women who had never shared a room, never sat across from each other at a restaurant, never passed a bowl of popcorn during a movie.
Their friendship existed in calls and texts and the occasional video chat where Cassandra kept the camera angled so only half her face showed. That was how Cassandra was comfortable, and Fallon had never pushed it.
They’d met in an online forum three years ago, a chronic illness group where people traded tips on managing bodies that didn’t cooperate. Cassandra had posted a long, dry, brutally honest breakdown of how she tracked her flare days on a spreadsheet, complete with color-coded columns and a section she’d labeled Days My Immune System Chose Violence. Fallonhad laughed so hard she’d sent a direct message. They’d become fast friends.
A year later, Cassandra knew everything about Fallon. Nobody else could say that.
“So,” Cassandra said. “New city. New project.”
Fallon snickered. “That’s right up there with: New year, new you.”
“I’ve been doing preliminary research since you got to Boston. The landscape there is interesting. Lots of old money, lots of nonprofits, lots of charity circuit events. You’ll have good access.”
“That’s what I was hoping. Seattle was getting too small.”
“Seattle was getting too hot. There’s a difference.”
Fallon pulled her knee toward her chest and rotated her ankle slowly. The joint clicked twice. “It was definitely time to move.”
“You cut it too close. That last deliverable got coverage in two local outlets and a podcast. My alerts were lighting up for a week.”
“Coverage is fine. We want coverage. It’s part of the lesson.”
“Coverage means attention. Attention means someone starts looking for patterns.”
