Page 227

I don’t answer. The answer is obvious.

Clint keeps walking, and I follow.

He finds his victory at the last stall before the bridge. A small bottle opener shaped like a fish, carved from dark wood with a metal mouth and one ridiculous glass eye. He picks it up, checks the hinge, the weight, the price.

“How much?” I ask.

He gives me a look. “Do not assist.”

Fair.

He turns to the vendor. “¿Cuánto cuesta?”

He negotiates the fish down. When he pays, the vendor wraps it in newspaper and hands it over like a sacred object.

Clint tucks it into his pocket, trying not to look too pleased.

“That’s a very handsome fish,” I say.

“He knows he looks good.”

My phone vibrates in my pocket.

“Ready to head back?”

Clint glances toward the street. “Yeah, sure. I mean, if you are.”

“Could you get us a cab? I need to make a quick call.”

His eyes move to mine. “To who?”

“My sister.” It tastes bad coming out. I try again. “Actually my lawyer.”

Clint smirks. “Your sister and your lawyer?”

I shake my head. “Just the latter.”

Clint breathes heavily. “Is it about PV?”

“Yes.”

He studies me for one long second, then nods.

“Guess I’ll be hearing from my lawyer, too.”

The tension hits like a hard slap.

“Probably.”

He walks toward the curb, shoulders squared against the world—and me.

I wait until he is far enough away not to hear, then I take out my phone and call Reggie.

Chapter thirty-seven

Permission

Clint