Page 78

“Enjoy.”

Then she’s gone.

Frowning, Fox lifts the glass, but doesn’t drink. Because beneath it, on the napkin, is something. Words, scribbled—a note.

I don’t give him a chance to read it. Just smack my palm over it and slide it in front of me as quick and deft and casual as I can with adrenaline shot through every cell in my body.

In small, blue ballpoint, are two lines.

I think you should leave.

X

That one letter. A sign-off, a kiss mark, normal enough. And maybe that’s all she thinks I’ll see.

But maybe not.

I stand up.

“We’re going.”

Fox lowers his beer. “We—okay,” he agrees, seeing whatever expression is on my face. I grab my purse, crumple the napkin, glance at the bartender, who’s now very busy at the other end with her back to us, her shoulders very straight.

Thank you, I telegraph. Girl to girl.

Fox gets up, too, and I tuck my hand through his arm like I’ve done it a thousand times.

“Don’t rush,” I say through tight lips as I steer him to the door. “Walk like you’re bored.”

Fox nods. “Man, I am so bored,” he remarks—overkill much? I think, even as I find it oddly endearing.

We manage to cross the carpet at a leisurely pace, past the man at the rope who has his back to us, thank God, and to the elevator, where I hit the button with a knuckle and stand there, clutching Fox’s arm, my heart galloping like a racehorse as I also try to look bored.

It’s quieter out here, without the music. Deep in the elevator well, I can hear the whoosh of motion, somehow not fast enough despite feeling like a rocket ship on the way in.

Come on, come on.

I break character for a moment and look away, and that’s when I see them. The dark domes of the cameras, gleaming. In the corners and in the ceiling and in the sconces, like little black eyes peering down. I try not to visibly tense as I turn back to the elevator. I’m just a girl. A girl who’s had a good night. A girl who’s about to go home with her boyfriend.

Come on. Come on⁠—

Ding. The doors glide open. We step in. Turn around. And through the narrowing gap, I see that dark side door fly wide open again. But before I can see who emerges—the suit guy, multiple suit guys, anyone else—the doors slide shut.

“Going down,” says the calm woman’s voice.

Fox lets out a breath so long it fogs the brass.

“Did they—” he asks.

“They’ll call down,” I whisper, eyes glued to the falling numbers on the sign above the door. “They have cameras. If they spot us at the entrance⁠—”

Three, two, one.

“So we’ll hide in plain sight,” Fox says.

The carriage slows. Stops.

“Ground level,” says the voice.