Cavall is curled in his bed in the corner, Virgil tucked under one paw, watching me with those soulful eyes like he’s judging my technique.
Lance is somewhere in the house. I can feel his presence the way you feel a storm coming—that low-pressure shift,electricity prickling along your skin. After the town square, after what I said on that bench, I’ve been avoiding being in the same room as him.
Two people trying really hard not to look like they’re enjoying each other’s company.
My phone buzzes.
ART:
Hey babe. On my way in 20.
I exhale and check the table. Three places set, because apparently this is my life now.
“Smells good.”
I spin around, nearly dropping a plate.
Lance is leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. He’s changed into a black T-shirt that stretches across his shoulders, hair damp and curling at the ends, silver chain catching the light.
Cavall’s tail thumps, but he doesn’t move from his spot.
“Do you practice your constant lurking, or does it come naturally?”
“Natural talent.” His mouth lifts. “Art on his way?”
“Twenty minutes.”
He nods and moves into the kitchen, grabs a wineglass, and pours some of the red I opened. Sets it on the counter near me without a word.
“What’s that for?”
“You’ve been cooking for two hours, and your lip is half chewed to death.”
My hand flies to my mouth. Sure enough, it’s raw. I didn’t even notice.
“Thanks,” I say, taking a sip.
“Game plan?” he asks, and the question is so casual that anyone overhearing would think he meant dinner logistics.
But I know what he’s asking. It feels weird, this limbo the two of us are in. We went from barely tolerating each other’s company to mutual acceptance and now we’re…whateverthisis. A team?
It’s strange, but I’m thankful to have him on my side while I try to unravel what’s going on with Art and my dad, both of whom have become master-level avoiders.
“I want to know where he actually went,” I say, turning back to the stove. “And I want to see if he’ll mention Brutus or Badon Hill by name.”
“He won’t.”
“Maybe not. But if I ask the right questions, the things he avoids will tell us as much as the things he says.” I stir the sauce. “My dad taught me that. The best cross-examination isn’t about what the witness admits. It’s about what they won’t.”
“What do you need from me?” he asks.
“Just be you. If he thinks we’re both relaxed, he’ll let his guard down. And if I push too hard, he’ll clock it. But if you ask a follow-up question that sounds casual—like you’re just his best friend catching up—he won’t see it coming from you.”
“Iamhis best friend.”
“Who he didn’t tell he was traveling.”
“Fair point.”
