Page 78 of Flint’s Strike

“Pressure readings.” He shakes his head, passing Nate a thumb drive. “Copied them for you. The system was running at thirty percent of the design spec.”

Nate freezes, the drive an inch from his laptop, brows arching into his hair. “Thirty percent? Did someone cut a water main that morning?”

“Nope. The system was activated twenty-three days ago and the pressure never climbed higher than thirty percent.”

Eliot rubs a spot on the left side of his chest—the same spot that was hurting him this morning—and my composure slips. “I…have to make a call. Excuse me.”

I can feel Eliot’s eyes on me as I reach for the door handle. But my steps don’t falter, and I don’t rush the walk to my office.

Once I’m alone, however—four walls and a door with frosted glass and my name on it between me and Eliot Flint—I sink down into my chair and drop my head into my hands.

We’ve been on one date. Had a night of mind-blowing sex, fell asleep in each other’s arms, and woke up to talk of a future that included breakfast in bed. That doesn’t make us anything yet. Not a couple. Not “official.” Hell, I don’t even know if I want us to be. And the fight…was it even a fight?

Sliding my phone out of my pocket, I pull up the group chat.

I’m going to need extra queso tonight.

It takes Emi less than two minutes to reply.

Emi:

Case going that badly? Never mind. I shouldn’t be asking. If you need a double batch of awesomeness, you get it.

Isabel:

I bought fresh watermelon. I’ll pick up a bottle of the good tequila on the way home.

Grace sends a thumbs up emoji, laughs at Isabel’s reply, and then the chat bubbles stop.

I don’t know what I need or even why I need it. But I do know I need it from her, and the silence stings.

“Stop it,” I mutter. “She could be in the middle of art class. Or throwing the tennis ball for Belle. Or just…busy.” Saying the words out loud helps enough, I bring up the city clerk’s number on my computer.

Before I can dial, my phone buzzes with a new message from Grace. Not in the group chat.

What’s wrong? And why don’t you want to tell Emi and Isabel?

Nothing, really. Just a hard day.

Bullshit.

Grace!

Parker! Out with it. This is about the arson inspector, isn’t it? Elliot?

Eliot. One L.

Ha! I knew it. If I was wrong, you wouldn’t have corrected me.

Shit. My poker face—especially over text—is usually a hell of a lot better than this.

Fine. It is. But I don’t know what actually happened. That’s the problem.

That’s worse than knowing. I’m taking a yoga class with Asha in ten minutes. But if you need to talk now, I can call Jasper to come get me. Or we can talk about it tonight.

I swallow the lump in my throat. Grace isn’t comfortable driving after…everything, and ride shares are too risky. There’s still a whole mess of former members of the Blessed Flock unaccounted for.

Tonight’s fine. Maybe by then, I’ll have figured out what happened.