No, she knew.
Cox was still involved.Still playing his game.
And not all of it was a game.
And the more she tried to shake that truth off…
…the more it held her.
Tight.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Thursday May 15th
Michael Torres told himself, firmly and repeatedly, that there was no reason to be worried.
People overslept.
People missed alarms.
People put their phones on do-not-disturb and forgot they'd done it.
Even Sarah Brennan.
Especially Sarah Brennan, given the way she’d been running herself into the ground for the last three months.
He repeated all this as he eased his second-hand Prius into a permit-only space opposite her Cambridge townhouse, killed the engine, and sat for a moment watching the pale brick facade.
The morning was one of those clean New England affairs that made the world look newly washed — sky an implausible blue, light sharp enough to carve edges into everything.The maple trees that lined the street were in full early-summer leaf, brightness backlit, the air cool enough that his breath still fanned faintly when he exhaled.
Sarah’s Prius sat obediently in her driveway, silver paint catching the sunlight, windshield beaded with a light film of pollen.The sight of it snagged his stomach, just for a second.
If she was out on a run, she’d have taken the car to the river.If she was at the office, she’d have taken the car downtown.If she’d gone anywhere that counted asbeing a responsible CEO, not a flake, she’d have taken—
“Stop it,” he muttered, rubbing a thumb over the rough skin at the base of his index finger.“You’re catastrophising and she’s going to make fun of you.”
It had been Sarah’s word originally — catastrophising — introduced with the same breezy authority she brought to pretty much everything.You’re doing that thing again, Torres.Spinning the worst case out of a stubbed toe.Breathe.Look for data, not panic.
Fine.Data.
Data point one: It was 9:06 a.m.They were due to start their strategy session at nine, same as every Thursday.She’d been the one to insist on it.Founders who don’t set up regular time to think big picture end up chasing their tails,she’d said, waving a forkful of salad like a lecturer brandishing a laser pointer.
Data point two: In four years of working together she had never once been late to that meeting without warning him first.
Data point three: He had three unread texts to her from the last hour —You alive?
I’m outside
If you’ve bailed for coffee I’m drinking your share
— all resolutely, stubbornly grey.
He stared at the blue-painted front door across the street.
“Fine,” he said out loud to nobody.“One more piece of data.”
He got out of the car, locking it with a soft beep that felt unnecessarily cheery, and crossed the street.
