Eventually, I put the phone down and glanced at the burner for the hundredth time.
Do not call this number again unless you are in immediate danger.
This was what revenge was supposed to look like, I reminded myself. Headlines. Humiliation. Consequences.
But all I could think about was the chain of events that had gotten me here—and how I would've chosen time travel in a heartbeat. A part of me had been erased so violently, so carelessly, that I was exhausted from searching for the pieces. And exhaustion made me reckless. Reckless enough to want to reach for a man I didn't even know, a man who was clearly dangerous, perhaps even more dangerous that the ones he was hunting.
I waited until midnight, hoping I'd pass out before giving into my desire to call theCustomer Servicenumber.
No such luck.
Hours later, my urge to talk to the stranger doing my bidding was still as strong as the moment I'd seen the news about Thorne's involvement in the Picasso scandal.
I'd been staring at the burner for twenty minutes straight, debating whether calling him against his advice would seem desperate.
Desperate won.
I dialed before I could talk myself out of it.
"Operative Seven. Are you in danger?" His voice came through exactly as I remembered—controlled, professional, like a machine programmed to sound just human enough. That velvety quality seemed out of place.
"No," I said, then added quickly, "But I have a question."
"Didn't I say not to call me unless it's a life and death situation? And questions outside of immediate threats are not protocol."
I expected for him to hang up, but he didn't.
Unable to sit still, I rose from the couch and continued. "Hypothetically, if someone were good at what they do—really good—would they be able to pull off something like the fake Picasso situation all over the news?"
Silence stretched between us as I began pacing the living room. I could almost hear him calculating his answer. He seemed like that type of person—someone who thought in algorithms.
"I can't discuss ongoing assignments," he finally droned.
"Well, I'm just asking a hypothetical question. Maybe I'm writing a book."
"Ask Google or contact an expert in the field for a consultation."
"Aren't you one?"
"One what?"
"Expert."
"I don't offer consultations."
"Still, that's not a no. I mean my hypothetical question."
"It's not a yes either."
I smiled despite myself. "You're good at this. The non-answer thing."
"Why are you calling?"
The question caught me off guard. Why was I calling? To confirm that he was responsible for Thorne's downfall? But it was clear as day. The truth was my mind had been replaying that bike ride with him ever since it'd happened. Even when I was busy, the memory was still there, lingering in the background. Hearing his emotionless voice and knowing he was a real person was a strange comfort.
"Are you doing this because you actually want to help people?" I asked carefully, my pulse too fast in my ears. "Or you just solve social justice problems because the gig pays well. I mean I assume it does."
"Is there a difference?" he replied, and I thought I heard something almost like dry humor in his tone.
