“Okay,” Aubrey said, mystified. “Sure.”
“Great.” Paige walked off.
Aubrey stood in the parking lot for a long time, replaying the conversation in search of some explanation. But her head drifted somewhere high above—distant, helium-filled, incapable of rational thought.
What in the holy hell had just happened?
24.
The guy who’d stolen Aubrey’s algorithm didn’t look like a douchebag. Exactly the opposite, as it turned out.
Nick squinted through the windshield. Half a block away, David Ballard ambled along the sidewalk, wearing the same coat he’d had on in his grainy Facebook photo. Except the picture hadn’t captured the beatific innocence emanating from David’s wide-set brown eyes, or the way his rounded cheeks brought to mind one of those baby angels from an Italian painting.
Nick promptly absolved Aubrey of all blame in trusting the guy. He looked about one good deed away from growing a halo and a pair of wings.
“That him?” Jackson rumbled.
“Yep.” Nick rubbed his hands together in front of the truck’s anemic heater. He’d circled the block nine times before finding a parking spot, and leaned in as David paused at the gated entry to his apartment building.
“Really?” Jackson said. “Because that dude looks like he runs a kitten rescue. Or saves babies from burning buildings.”
“Yeah, well, he’s actually a dickhead thief who ruins people’s lives.”
Jackson made a thoughtful sound. “Kind of seems like a crime to hit him, anyway. But hey, man. You do you.”
Nick snorted. He waited for a rush of guilt, but... nope. Nothing. “You know the rule. He’ll have to hit me first. Which I sincerely hope he does. Anyway. Go time.”
Before Jackson could respond, Nick slipped from the truck alone and arrowed along the sidewalk. Up ahead, David unlocked his security door and pulled it open.
The block pulsed with vibrancy. Brightly painted fire hydrants competed for attention with whizzing yellow taxi cabs, while the warm waft of roasting shawarma meat softened the November chill. But Nick barely registered the surroundings. His fingertips caught the edge of David’s security door just before it snicked shut. He ducked inside.
Ahead of him, David sauntered through a tiled entryway, then down a hall and up a musty flight of stairs. Nick trailed him, but the guy didn’t glance back. Apparently, he had the situational awareness of a turtle.
Halfway down a bland hallway, David stopped at an unassuming door. His key grated in the lock, prompting Nick to up his pace. Once again, he caught the door just before it shut. He pushed it open and stood on the threshold.
David paused and turned. He scanned Nick up and down, blinking with those too-big eyes. “Uh, hi. Do I know you?”
A whisper of sympathy ghosted across Nick’s mind. He hadn’t taken off his beanie or oversized jacket since Indiana, considering the heater in the truck barely worked, and he knew how he must look. Any sane person would assume this was a break-in. Worst-case scenario, David had a gun and would go for it.
Nick primed every muscle. If this guy was armed, he’d have to lunge before—
“I think you have the wrong apartment.” David gave a puzzled frown. “Or are you lost? Do you need help?”
Nick paused. Weren’t New Yorkers supposed to be rude? Or cautious, at least? Had this guy missed the memo? “I’m not lost. You’re David Ballard, right?”
David’s frown deepened. “Yeah. What’s this about?”
“A... friend of mine. Aubrey MacLean.”
The guy froze. A complicated procession of emotions marched across his face before his features crumpled. “Oh, thank god.”
“Thank... Wait, what?”
“I’ve been hoping she’d get in touch.” David pulled the door open wider. “I haven’t known how to reach her. Anyway, you should probably come in.”
Nick glanced around the hallway. Had he fallen asleep in the truck? Was he dreaming? Could be, except nothing struck him as out of place—tatty brown carpet stretched in both directions, lit by a harsh fluorescent glare.
He cleared his throat. “Uh, sure.”
