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Briggs’s umbrella keeps drifting sideways over me every time traffic splashes too close to the curb.

“You know I’m capable of existing independently beneath precipitation,” I tell him.

“Suspicious claim.”

I roll my eyes. “You sound like somebody who loses arguments recreationally.”

“I lose arguments strategically. Makes people overconfident.”

Torin snorts beside us. “That explains absolutely nothing about your life choices.”

Ashby walks slightly ahead, checking another address against the notebook in his hand.

The infamous notebook.

The thing’s become an extension of his nervous system at this point.

Every time he flips through pages I feel weirdly calmer, which feels medically concerning.

The next shelter gives us nothing.

So does the next.

By the time evening starts settling over the city, frustration is pressing heavily beneath my skin.

The exhausted kind.

The kind that whispers maybe you were too late the whole time.

We stop eventually outside a tiny coffee shop near Capitol Hill because Torin notices my hands shaking while I’m trying to refold the PI’s paperwork.

“I’m fine,” I tell him automatically.

“You nearly stapled your thumb to a map twenty minutes ago.”

“That map was out of order.”

Briggs opens the café door for us. “Come on, sweetheart.”

The place smells like cinnamon, espresso, and wet coats drying near heaters. People huddle over laptops beneath hanging lights while soft music plays overhead.

Seattle manages to make exhaustion look aesthetic.

I collapse into a booth beside the window while the men get drinks.

The second they walk away, the aching longing crashes over me like a wave.

Because Maggie was here.

Almost close enough to touch.

Scared enough that shelter workers remember her expression even now.

I stare out at the rain-blurred street, trying very hard not to think about all the nights my sister spent alone while I took meetings and organized spreadsheets hundreds of miles away, pretending productivity counted as a life.

A steaming appears in front of me. Ashby slides into the booth across from me. Briggs and Torin are at the counter, apparently arguing about pastries.

“You look cold,” Ashby says simply.