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“Yeah.” A pause. “She’s going to be pissed.”
“She’s going to be furious.” I look at my drink. “She’s going to feel like every conversation you’ve ever had was a performance. She’s going to feel like she doesn’t know which parts of you are real.”
He shoots me a withering look. “You aren’t helping!”
“No, I’m not,” I agree. “I’m describing what’s coming.”
“Great. Can’t wait!”
Steve appears just as I feel the first rumble of hunger—thanks to the smells emanating from the kitchen.
Kaz orders, still without reading the menu. He gets handmade orecchiette with cime di rapa, and I go for the branzino. Steve nods approvingly at both choices and disappears.
“Is the software company…the money…all that is a cover?”
He shakes his head. “It’s mine. Every dollar. I built it from nothing. Sold it and then joined the FBI. When I told them I wanted to go back home to Wildflower Canyon, they suggested I go undercover. They needed someone who could operate in that community without being detected.” He gazes at his Sazerac. “What I built in Wildflower Canyon is mine. What I did for the Bureau is separate.”
“Does that distinction hold up?”
He thinks about it. “Mostly.” He pauses. “Maybe not entirely. The house and…fuck, I like golf and can’t ranch, so that was a legitimate acquisition, and it supported my cover. The help I give to the community overlaps with the job, but I do it because I want to.” He downs his drink. “Bree is going to ask me that question. I need to have an answer she can believe.”
“Do you have one you believe?”
He shoots me a flat, unimpressed glare. “Not yet.”
The orecchiette arrives. The branzino arrives. We eat.
Steve pours a Fiano d’Avellino that he apparently decided we needed without consulting us, and he’s right, and neither of us argues.
For a while, we don’t talk.
We eat the food, which is exactly what food in a place like this should be—real ingredients, real technique, no performance—and Steve tops off the wine and moves down the bar like he knows we need the privacy.
“So, you’re gonna live on the golf course and…do what for work? You don’t need the money, but everyone needs to work.” I know that better than most because I’m not sure what I’m going to do now that I torched my career as a fixer.
Kaz cuts a piece of orecchiette with his fork. “I’ve been thinking about that.” He eats the pasta, then sets his fork down. “Security consulting. The valley is full of ranching operations that will continue to face such pressure from corporate acquisitions. They need people who understand both the threat environment and the community.” He looks up. “They need people who know how the other side operates.”
I raise both my eyebrows at his silent question.
“I’m not asking tonight.” He swirls his wine. “I’m just thinking out loud.”
“Sure you are.”
A shadow of amusement flickers across his mouth. “I’ll ask officially when the timing is better.”
“When will the timing be better?” I methodically peel away the white, flaky meat of the branzino.
“When you’ve sorted out your disaster.” He drinks his wine and sets it down. “Which brings us back to why I’m in New York.”
“Yeah, tell me about that.”
I stop eating as he tells me, and I lose my appetite. Entirely.
“I told Jessup to keep that asshole—”
“Our investigation says that Jessup told him to stand down,” he cuts me off. “But Trafton is running his own agenda now.”
I scowl.
