Page 11

Her eyebrow lowers, and she nods like she’s satisfied with the shift in tone. Which… I should be, too. Verbal sparring, teasing, competing. Those are the lines within which we’ve always operated best.

“You can put the cuffs away,” she says. “I’m not a threat.”

That’s what she thinks.

“Once you tell me what you’re doing here.”

“I want to know why you’re here,” she says with a grunt as she rolls onto her side. “What are you doing back at Hogan’s Alley? You know I flew to Chicago to find you first?”

“When?”

“Late last night.”

“Why are you trying to find me at all?” I ask.

“To give you these,” she says, pulling a bag from the pocket of her zip-up.

“You got on two planes to bring me Tail Mix?” I accept the bag with our version of trail mix in it. It’s what we’d eat during surveillance-training at Quantico when we learned how to track someone. We disagreed on pretty much everything except for the fact that snacks are infinitely better when there are Red Hots in them. I pop a cinnamon candy into my mouth. “We agreed to stay out of each other’s lives.”

Scarlett considers me. “And I gave you a year, as promised.”

“Technically, you’re early.”

And I’m falling behind. On figuring out how to exist in this life. Of becoming a man worthy of her. For a moment, though, when she looks at me, I forget about everything that’s gone wrong in the last twelve months. This is the effect she seems to have, and now that she’s back in my orbit, I’m afraid of what that will mean.

“Sandwiches?” is what comes out of her mouth next.

“You owe me a new suit,” I say once we’ve ordered sandwiches from Subway, the only real, operating place of business in Hogan’s Alley, and are sitting on the curb outside the post office to eat.

“I might be able to help you with that,” she says vaguely. “Are you okay? I know the bank robbery was just training, but—”

“I’m—yeah. I’m fine. My therapist did say exposure therapy might help.” It probably comes off sarcastic, but I’m not trying to be.

The FBI SWAT team has already picked up the nonlethal ammunition casings that Scarlett and her bank robber partner, who we saw grabbing a sandwich of his own, used on us.

The innocent bystanders have all scattered to the wind, their errands for the afternoon complete for now. In an hour or so, they’ll be back for another training session, to do another round of visits to the motel, restaurant, pharmacy, movie theater, and the most-robbed bank in the world.

“Your apartment is so sad,” Scarlett says after swallowing a bite. “It doesn’t look like you live there at all. Your fridge has cornichons. Literally, that’s it. Just pickles.”

“Pickles last a long time,” I say. “So when you went to visit me, you really meant you went to break into my apartment.”

“Thought about it, but it didn’t come down to that. Your nice neighbor let me in.”

Dammit. Mrs. Atkinson from across the hall has a doorbell camera that rings so loudly it wakes the entire floor up every morning when her dog walker arrives. “More like nosy neighbor.”

“According to her, you were the one who gave her a spare key. What does she do, water your nonexistent plants?”

“She replenishes my pickle stash,” I deadpan. Then, for real, I say, “It’s in case I need to get home, and I can’t get to my stuff, you know, out on the job.”

Scarlett nods. “She thinks you work on a cruise ship. Said it’s because you leave for long stretches of time with a duffel bag.”

Great, she’s monitoring me on her doorbell camera. “An assumption. Never told her what I do.”

“You should invite her over for a cheese-board chitchat. Serve your fancy cornichons.”

“Nice suggestion, but we already do that.” At Scarlett’s amused look, I add, “In exchange for babysitting my spare key, I give her security tips.”

“That’s sweet. Oh! She asked me to let her know when I saw you.” She pulls out her phone and starts a new message. “Found him. Alaska cruise,” she dictates out loud. “He’s taking us all whale watching later.”