His leg bounces under the table like he’s got somewhere else to be, and he keeps checking his watch when he thinks we’re not looking.
“You okay there?” I ask, refilling his wine glass. “You seem a little wound up.”
“Yeah, fine. Just tired.” But his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Long day, you know?”
“Doing what?” I take a long gulp of my wine.
He hesitates for a second. “Just... walked around the city. Explored a bit.”
Tierney looks up from her plate. “I thought you were staying close to the building. With everything that’s been happening. You need to be safe.”
He rubs the back of his neck. “I know. Trust me, I was careful. I took security with me.”
Another lie. I know for a fact he left the building alone this afternoon. My men reported it, but I figured he needed some air. Kid’s been cooped up for weeks.
Now I’m wondering what else he needed.
“Where’d you go?” I ask, struggling to keep my tone casual when alarm bells are ringing in my fucking ears.
“Just... around Manhattan. Coffee shops, bookstores. Nothing exciting.”
Vague answers. Generic locations. The kind of response someone gives when they don’t want to be nailed down on specifics.
“Find anything good?”
Connor’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “Not really. Just killed some time.”
Tierney reaches over and squeezes his arm. “You don’t have to feel guilty about getting out. I just worry about you.”
“I know.” But he still looks like he wants to crawl out of his skin.
My phone buzzes against my leg. Text message. I ignore it and focus on Connor’s nervous energy. It spikes with every passing second and I want to know why.
“How are those university applications coming along?” I ask.
“Good. Still waiting to hear back.”
“From which schools again?”
“NYU, Columbia...” He trails off, like he can’t remember the rest of his own list. “A few others.”
“Right. And you’re still thinking about businessas your major?”
“Yep. Business.”
Same answers as always. Too rehearsed, too perfect. Something gnaws at my gut. The kid is squirrely as hell tonight, and I don’t like the way his eyes dart around with every bullshit answer he feeds me.
My phone buzzes again. Then again.
“Excuse me,” I say, pulling it out of my pocket. “Work stuff.”
On the screen are three messages from Mannino, each marked urgent.
Need to talk. Now.
It’s about Connor Blake.
Call me. You’re not gonna like this.
