Standing in line with Agent Glass isn't nearly as uncomfortable as I expected. I no longer hold my bag in a strangling grip, and his ink has dimmed to an occasional glimmer. There's still awkwardness between us, but pretending I'm interested in the vendor's list of lunch specials helps with that.
The thing is, though, I'm more interested in him. Now that he's not buttoned up in a full suit, he looks younger. What'd he say he was? Twenty-four? Not that old. And definitely not ancient like Slake.
While we wait, the sun comes out from behind the coastal fog, bright and warm. I pull out some shades from my bag, but he just darkens the lenses of his glasses with a flicker from his ink. It makes me wonder how much of his appearance he can change. We haven't actually touched, yet. Who knows how much is cosmetic codework and how much is flesh and blood.
He seems real enough. This close, he towers over me, and with his jacket off, the strong lines of his shoulders and the muscles in his arms are much more obvious. In fact, he's probably a match for Valentine in size and height. But that doesn't bother me. He's big but not suffocating, careful about giving me space while we stand together. Probably out of fear that I'll bite him if he gets too close.
When it's our turn to order, I get a honey-jalapeno glazed shrimp skewer, and then impulsively add in a horchata, remembering the ones Gran used to make for Maria and me. Gideon gets a scallop taco, asking for it to be topped with the mango habanero salsa. The vendor shoots me a glance to see if I'll warn him.
But while I try to figure out how to explain it's a scorching hot dish without sounding like a condescending jerk, he hands over the money. And when he gets the change back, I realize the vendor charged him for both our meals. As soon as we move to the side to wait for the food, I try to repay him for my half. "Here."
He looks surprised at the offer. "That's not necessary."
I frown. "You shouldn't have to pay for my stuff."
"It's all right. I'm leaving the country tomorrow and will have no further need of this currency."
"Maybe you could get a final coffee or something." When he shakes his head, probably ready to say he doesn't drink coffee, I get desperate. "Please, just take it. I don't want you doing things for me to make up for earlier. I hate it when someone demands the person they fought with pay up for pissing them off. It just makes things worse."
He gives me that look again, the one that suggests he hears more to my words than I mean to say. But after a moment, he reaches for the money. "If you're sure."
The warm, deft brush of his fingers against mine sends a thrill running up my arm. Christ. His hand is definitely real. And if his touch always feels like that, no wonder his ink responds so quickly. Before I can think up a joke to smooth it over, the vendor calls us for our food.
We take one of the trails winding through clusters of rocks and cypresses near the shoreline, a footpath without many other people on it. We're so close to the beach that the air smells sharp and salty. A few gulls land and start waddling behind us, hoping to be fed. Any other time, it's exciting as hell to be near the ocean, but right now I'm nervous, wondering how far I'll get with my story before Gideon loses his guilty goodwill.
I'm watching steam drift from my shrimp when he suddenly clears his throat. "I suspect the vendor believed I didn't know what I ordered."
The taco is overloaded with habanero salsa. The mere thought of biting into that makes my eyes water. "Some people aren't used to how hot Chetli food can be."
He raises an eyebrow and speaks a sentence in effortless Spanish before taking a bite.
I'm floored. I'm shit at understanding Spanish, but I can pick out the difference between the Chetli dialects and the official version taught in language classes. Gideon definitely spoke in one of the former. "You know the local talk."
He nods and finishes chewing before answering. "It played a large part in why I was sent here on assignment."
I look him over as he takes another bite without breaking a sweat, marveling as much at how neatly the man's able to eat a taco as how he appears a perfect example of a Kingsman. No one would suspect him of knowing more than whatever a lazy tourist can grasp. I scrutinize his appearance, studying the warm undertone to his skin that I thought was a tan, and the wave in his hair that a short style can't completely hide. "You have Chetli blood, don't you?"
He carefully pokes a stray scallop back into his half-eaten taco, as if using the moment to consider what to say. "I do. On my mother's side. After seeing my eyes and hearing my voice, most people decide I've lived in the Kingdom all my life, but until I turned nine, I actually spent half of the year with my maternal family here in Necali."
"What happened then?"
"They lived near Fivefield," he says, evenly. "The disaster devastated much of the rural witch populations there, and my family was no exception."
I wince. That's all the explanation necessary. "I'm sorry."
He nods to acknowledge my words, and adds, "Quite a few people know about my ties to Necali, but assume my mother came from an Anglo bloodline. I don't mind letting them keep their wrong conclusions."
His voice sounds pleasant enough, but I can tell he doesn't want to go any further. So, I back off, trying to keep things light. "You're pretty sneaky, Agent Glass. I bet you heard a lot more than you wanted to in bio class yesterday."
He smiles wryly, shoulders relaxing. "Could have been worse, I suppose. Compared to Agent Slake, I got off very favorably."
"Yeah, but you'd get off favorably compared to anyone. I bet you could make someone faint if you smiled at them long enough." Gingerly, I pull off a shrimp with my teeth and chew it. Bright heat spreads on my tongue, and I feel better immediately. Maybe he's onto something about talking over food.
"Well..." He gives me an embarrassed glance, like he doesn't usually talk about his looks.
But he's also smiling, so I don't feel bad for poking him some more. "Come on, you can see yourself in a mirror, right? You know how good you look. I'd definitely believe it if someone told me that instead of being born, you drifted to shore fully-formed on a giant shell."
He wipes his hands with a napkin. "If I did, I've just finished committing cannibalism."
A laugh bubbles out of me before I can stop it, and his own smile grows. I pull off another shrimp and say, "Anyway, Pilar and her friends always make comments when they think others can't understand. She tried that on me a few times before realizing I figure out things well enough by their expressions."
"You never learned?" He's as surprised that a Chetli girl doesn't understand Spanish as I was that a Kingsman does.
I start playing with the straw for my drink. "Not really. See, when I was little, my grandmother was told by a pre-school counselor that I spoke accented English. We weren't living here in Necali by then; after my folks died in Fivefield, there was some family drama, and Gran also lost a lot of trust in the government. So, she took my sister and me east to find work in one of the Amstar cities.
"Problem was, there we were just immigrants. Wouldn't have been so bad if we were Anglo Necalians; they pretty much sound like people from Amstar, anyway. But we were Chetli, obviously. So, Gran was advised my sister and I would have more opportunities if we lost the accents, and that if the household became English-speaking only, we'd sound like native Amstari. So..."
I shrug. "Abuela became Gran. And the counselor was right; my sister's now at some snobby boarding school in Orion City on a scholarship. It worked out great for her. If she could, she'd ditch her Chetli blood entirely."
After a moment, Gideon says, "How did it fare for you?"
"I don't know. It hasn't helped me go anywhere, but I don't know if it hurt me, either. Hard to miss something you don't remember having." Not completely true; there's a small, steady ache living with the ones I feel for my parents, like losing their language pushes me that much farther from them. "And it helped that Laci was there, going through the same thing I was. A lot of Chetli immigrants grouped together in sections of the city, so we grew up side by side until her family came back here for Mercywing. Experienced a lot of the same shit."
Realizing my shrimp went cold, I slide another off the skewer. This one doesn't taste as good. "That's probably why she came to me about the vampire."
As I go over what happened, Gideon doesn't do anything, but his ink flickers in time with my words, as if recording my voice. That's enough to get me to explain in more detail whenever he asks questions. And unlike that dickhead detective, he asks a lot. But his face looks completely blank while he listens, giving me no clue on what he thinks. Despite the casual settings, he suddenly seems very much like the cold, incisive INKtech agent who always appears in action vids as the outsider concerned only with his organization coming out on top.
It's not very reassuring, especially since explaining it piece by piece turns each thing that scared me into something that comes off as harmless, even mundane. A guy fixed my car, said to be careful since I was a girl living alone, and then wished me good night. Big fucking wow.
When I move to my shitacular experience with filing a report at the Preternatural Investigation Center, he finally pulls up lines of information on his ink. To my surprise, a graphic of a photo ID appears between us. I immediately recognize Detective Tanner's indifferent face.
"Is this him?" says Gideon.
When I nod, he clears the graphic with a swipe and puts his hands back into his pockets. Is that bad for Tanner, or bad for me? "After that is when I saw an inker carrying cups of tea, and followed her on a hunch. You know the rest from there."
When he nods but stays silent, I try again. "Guess that makes me pretty lucky. I didn't think INKtech worked with the Necalian government anymore."
"We're helping with a difficult case." His voice sounds only neutral. Why? Because he thinks he's walking with a silly, confused girl?
Frustrated, I stop in my tracks. "Look, I know this sounds exaggerated, maybe even made up. I know I have no proof of anything. It's just... Melanie went missing. Laci asked me for help, and now she's missing, too. Goddamnit, I don't want to be next."
At that, his gaze jumps to my face, and his eyes lose some of their detachment.
I stare right into them, willing him to hear me. "But if I am, then I'm going to leave better traces behind than some torn journal pages. Hospice security is a joke, so I hoped filing a complaint with someone more official would do something."
He studies me and says, "Detective Tanner never logged your report into the PIC database. I checked while you spoke. If he hasn't dismissed it completely, then he kept it as a paper copy only."
Trying to ignore the sinking feeling in my stomach, I say, "Yeah, probably filed under 'Hysterical Girls.'"
But the joke falls flat in my ears, and Gideon doesn't smile, either. "You mentioned Valentine fixed your car back to running yet didn't return the keys. Did you check on whether he left them inside the car as you asked?"
"Yep. He did." The keys are still clear in my mind, dangling mockingly from the ignition. I stuck out my tongue at them and left them there.
"Did you drive it here this morning?"
"No, I took a bus."
"Then your car stopped working?"
Wow, he's really interested. Hope threads through me. "Fuck if I know; I haven't touched it since last night, and won't until I get a mech witch to look at it. Maybe that's how he got to Melanie. Pretended to fix her car, did something to make it die on an isolated road, and then attacked her. I don't know."
He nods. "Right. I'd like to see it. And him, if he'll answer his door."
It takes me a moment to get it. "You mean, you'll come back to Mercywing?"
Another nod.
"You believe me?"
Now he looks away, and I know that he doesn't. At least, not fully. I push down the sting of disappointment in time to hear him say, "I'd certainly like to investigate the situation a bit more before I write up my report."
Relief rushes through me at those words. He'll do it. Then, the weight of the situation slams down with nosebleed pressure. He'll do it, and a half-assed report will be the only trace of me left if I can't keep away from Valentine's teeth. Reduced to a few lines of code in a database. What excuse will be made? That my wolf blood went feral and I ran away? They probably won't even find my body to put into a grave. They haven't with Melanie's. Suddenly, the shrimp look disgusting. I think I might throw up.
Something must show on my face, because Gideon's voice turns worried. "Phoenix?"
I stare at the congealed shrimp, trying not to think about my body stuffed inside a trash can somewhere, but when his hand brushes my arm, I look up.
He moves to face to me, eyes intent as they stare into mine. As his fingers curl around my elbow, warmth surges between our arms from his ink. "I know you're scared. I promise I'll do what I can to help you resolve this."
It's still hard to breathe, but I try a smile. "Thanks. Really. Do you want to leave now?"
He hesitates, and then lets his hand drop away. The warmth from his ink goes with it. "I'd prefer taking a private car over the commuter bus. Though I'm obligated to warn you, I do drive like a madman."
I shrug and shake loose the rest of the shrimp for the gulls. The horchata goes into the nearest garbage can. It wasn't nearly as good as Gran's, anyway. "It's okay. Gran insisted on driving for about two years after she should've stopped. You can't possibly scare me."
#
There's a parking garage underneath the PIC building. Inside, we pass aisles of regular cars, some sleek and preening, and others worn junk heaps like mine. The vehicles running on INKtech have their own aisle. I'm not a car-girl; if it runs, it's good enough for me. But even I can tell these are their own breed. They remind me of wasps, elegant, sharp, and unnervingly alien. There are a few motorcycles among the cars, but Gideon passes by them without a glance. Good. The one and only time I rode as a passenger on a motorcycle, I had to yank my shirt down again and again to avoid flashing my bra at people.
He stops beside a black car, the ink on his arm brightening as he reaches for the door handle. In response, the dashboard inside the car flickers to life, glowing with the same blue light. After pulling out a freshly-pressed suit from behind the driver's seat, he gives me an apologetic look. "I'd like to make myself more presentable before we leave. It'll only take a few minutes."
"No problem." I turn away and dig through my bag to give him the illusion of privacy. Then my phone really does ring. When I check it, a jolt goes through me. It's Elliot. I move a few steps away before answering. "Hi."
"Hey, what are you doing?" He sounds like he's in a good mood.
Despite myself, I glance over at Gideon unrolling his sleeves. He absently runs a hand through his hair before going to work on his tie. This time his fingers move quick and sure. "Ogling strange men. You?"
He laughs. "Thinking up some nice birthday surprises."
"Right. My birthday." I completely forgot about it. And what I agreed to do. "Um, can we talk about this later? I'm dealing with something right now."
"Yeah, I know you don't like me calling any time before afternoon, but I have to ask you something."
"Sure." Please don't let him want to come over. If he finds out I'm with Gideon, no matter how non-romantic the reason, he won't just explode, he'll go supernova.
"You got any matching bra and underwear sets?"
Oh, Christ. "No."
"It'd look really good, you know. For the photos. Don't you think?"
I don't want to shell out money for some goddamn underwear I'll never wear again, but I also don't have time to argue, because another peek at Gideon reveals he's already shrugged on his suit vest. "Yeah, okay. I'll find something."
Somewhere. I doubt the gas station at Mercywing sells bras next to the display of energy drinks.
"You won't have to," he says, sounding satisfied. "I already got a set for you. Just wanted to make sure you were agreeable first."
"But..." Things are moving too fast. I rub one temple, feeling a headache coming on. "What'd you get?"
"Don't worry, they're sexy. And you'll get to try them on in a minute; I'm almost at your house."
Fuck. "I'm not there, Elliot. I'm in Glimmer, just leaving a government office after dealing with some bullshit. I won't be back until late afternoon."
"What? But I'm at work then."
"Then drop them off." As Gideon does up his last button and reaches for the jacket, I add, "I mean, thanks. Thank you. But seriously, I got to go. Let's talk about it before bio tomorrow."
"All right." He definitely sounds sullen, but I'm not going to make Gideon wait any longer. He might change his mind.
"Okay, bye." I end the call before realizing I forgot to say love you at the end. Shit. He'll be pissed at that. And now he's probably stewing over that stupid crack I made about ogling guys. I'm so bad at this girlfriend shit.
"Everything all right?" Gideon waits near the passenger side of the car, gaze on my face.
I shove my phone into my bag and hurry over. "It's nothing."
He gives me a questioning look, but only opens the door. I hesitate before getting inside, looking over the gleaming car. From what I've heard about inkers, they like to put themselves above witches and their rituals for magic. But I ask, anyway. "Is it sentient? Should I greet it?"
"Technically, the car is only an extension of the ink's sensory field and power application, not its own being." After a beat, he admits, "But yes, I like to."
I swear the gleaming body of the car winks extra reflected light as I murmur the same words of greeting I use when coming across pathfinders or any other magical being. It makes me feel better about getting into a rich, leather interior that probably costs more than most people's monthly mortgage payment. Gideon slides into the driver's seat, ink brightening as the engine starts with a quiet hum. It fades to silence as we pull out of the garage, and then we're off.
I can see why he warned me about being a maniac behind the wheel; he drives fast, with all the one-handed confidence of someone who doesn't care about cops and speeding tickets. But he's careful and relaxed, and the car responds smoothly to his touch. After five minutes, I'm comfortable enough to stop glancing at the speedometer.
When we hit the freeway, his fingers start tapping the wheel, and at least one sidelong glance slides my way. Finally, he says, "Ms. Belmonte, I have a very intrusive question. And perhaps an unfair one, considering I wasn't forthcoming with my own personal history."
I feel like telling him my boyfriend picked out underwear for me without prior warning and I really don't see how he can top that. "Go on."
"I couldn't help but notice your teeth, and you mentioned having skin witches in your family. Are you one as well?"
Ah. "No. My mom was a wolf witch. My dad wasn't. My sister's got some witch bloodâshe's really good at metal magicâbut I'm a total dud. Can't change, my senses aren't any better than a human's, and I'm horrible with spells."
I'm less interested in what the question could mean than in why I'm back to being Ms. Belmonte.
After a moment, he elaborates. "I'm curious why your friend believed you being a wolf witch, in blood if not in practice, is so important."
"You think she's dead, too, don't you?" When he gives me a startled glance, I add, "You're talking about her in the past tense."
Keeping his eyes on the road, he quietly says, "Yes, I do."
I nod and look out the window. Funny how having that worry validated doesn't make me feel any better.
The next couple of miles pass in silence. I notice the thumb of his free hand keeps rubbing a ring on his first finger, a plain silver band worn with age. He has nice hands, well-defined and with long, strong fingers. I wonder if all inkers have that, or if it's just another attribute the gene fairy gifted him with. Realizing I'm ogling him again, my eyes dart up to his face to see if he's noticed. He hasn't, but he also frowns a little. Glancing back at the ring, it dawns on me that something worries him. "What's wrong?"
His gaze follows mine; then he quickly flexes his fingers and settles both hands on the steering wheel. "Merely a memory. I first thought of it while checking on Detective Tanner, and now it won't leave. If it's relevant to the larger situation, I'm not yet sure how."
"What's it about?" The question is out of my mouth before I remember his previous reluctance to talk about himself.
His fingers tap against the wheel again, but he answers. "One of my mother's sisters is a salve witch. When I was eight and spending the summer here, a friend of hers fell sick and went into hospital. This friend trusted my aunt more than medical physicians, and asked her to perform a spell to diagnose her illness. So, while she underwent bloodwork, x-rays, and other tests, my aunt carried out the spell. I was allowed to watch."
Salve witches can be fucking powerful. Watching one work isn't something to sniff at. "Was it interesting?"
"Not quite the right word for it. Unnerving is closer. She tore apart a live squirrel with her bare hands."
"Christ." I stare at him.
"I threw up afterward," he admits. "But that's beside the point. When she looked inside the squirrel, she found it had a swollen liver. About thirty minutes later, the friend's family called to say doctors had diagnosed her with a form of hepatitis. Two very different disciplines each identified the same source of her sickness. What I took away from that experience, aside from a feeling of slight terror toward my aunt that continues to this day, was that branches of knowledge don't have to compete with each other. Merely because one is right doesn't mean the other must then be wrong. People like Detective Tanner find such an idea difficult to accept, however."
I think about it. "Is that why you're doing this, even though you don't believe Valentine's a vampire?"
"Probably. Several of my old instructors would drop dead to hear this, but correctness isn't everything. Whether you're right or not to call him a vampire, if he's taken two girls, he's a problem."
I nod and let a few moments pass. Then, when the timing feels right... "So, you don't have a lot of luck with aunts, do you?"
It gets a laugh out of him, and even though we don't talk much more for the rest of the drive, the air between us feels clear.
#
A small box waits on the porch. While Gideon steps out of the car to survey the area, I scurry over and grab it. No way do I want him getting a look at whatever Elliot bought for me. Christ, it's tiny. What'd he get, a thong and some nipple pasties? After shoving it into my bag, I glance back at Gideon. "I'm going to check on Gran real quick. Look at whatever you want."
He nods and starts walking around my car, studying it from every angle.
When I step inside, Mrs. Kent is by the front window, holding back the curtain so she can watch Gideon. Fuel chirps and flies over to groom my hair as she says, "Now I see why you sounded panicky when you called to pull me in this morning. I'd hate losing a chance at him, too."
We both stare out the window. Every movement Gideon makes radiates a cool confidence, and his face has that remote expression I recognize from earlier. It's hard to believe he's the same guy who looked embarrassed at being told he's attractive.
"He's just checking out my car," I say, and move for the living room to see Gran.
Mrs. Kent's skeptical, "Mm-hmm," follows me in, but I ignore it.
Gran's asleep, so I only cover her hand with mine to say hi. When she doesn't wake up, I return to Mrs. Kent, who gathers her things. "Was she confused at all this morning?"
"She just slipped in and out of sleep. Sweetie, she's getting closer. There's not much time left." She says it nicely, but her words feel like barbed wire wrapping around my heart.
I force a smile. "The hospice nurse said as much on her last visit."
She sighs. "I've looked after a lot of people while waiting for Fivefield to catch up to me, and your grandma has to be one of the nicest I've known. Going to be a sad day when it happens. And brutal for you." Then she jerks her chin at the window, which reveals Gideon opening the hood to my car. "Maybe you'll want to bring him in for that night, or the one after; don't feel bad if you do. Grief works itself in different ways."
A disquieting feeling scales my ribs, separate from the spiky panic that always sticks there when I think about life after Gran. Watching Gideon duck under the hood, I wonder if she doesn't have a point. The thought of inviting Elliot over on that night inspires the mental equivalent of a shrug. I guess us having sex would distract me from the reality that Gran isn't there, and won't ever be again.
But with Gideon over... I think I'd like his hands on me, exploring my body with the same attentiveness he gives my car right now. And I think I'd like exploring him, too.
I look down, rubbing my eyes. Christ, why am I considering this? He leaves tomorrow, and I have to get back to keeping that vampire creep off my neck. "Mrs. Kent, could you wait a little? I need to put something away and then check a few things with him."
She grimaces, but sets her bags back down. "Only because he's handsome, girl."
"Thanks."
I hurry to my room and pull out Elliot's box from my bag, shoving it under the mattress, unopened. I'm not about to deal with it right now. Then I take the chance to change out of my shirt, which itches like hell. Pulling on a t-shirt and switching the flats for my usual sneakers makes me feel almost normal again.
A glance out my window turns into a stare; Gideon is at Valentine's front door. Goosebumps break out along my arms as he knocks. There's no answer. Valentine's truck is gone, has been since I left this morning, but that doesn't reassure me any. All of the windows are blacked-out, offering no glimpse inside, but I sense a tension, like the whole house waits, ready to lunge if Gideon makes a wrong move. It's too quiet, too still.
If the silence bothers Gideon, he doesn't show it, looking cool and collected as he walks down the gravel path that circles around the back. My fingernails bite into the windowsill as he moves out of sight. I don't think I take a full breath while waiting for him to reappear. Horrible things slide through my mind, scenes from every horror vid I've seen where a character steps into a house and never leaves again.
"C'mon," I mutter, eyes darting between the corner of the house he disappeared behind, and the corner he should come around from. Wood splinters under my fingers.
Then there he is, walking unhurriedly along the box hedge to cross back over here. But something's different. If before he looked observant, now he looks outright grim. I meet him on the porch, heart pounding as I close the door behind me. "Can we talk by your car? The window's open and Mrs. Kent might hear us."
He nods and waits until we're out into the street before saying, "Firstly, don't go inside that house, no matter what. My ink didn't detect anyone, but I saw a few things that suggest you're right to be afraid."
My gaze darts to the house. "What kinds of things?"
He ditches the agent mode long enough to take off his glasses and rub his eyes. "Unfortunately, I can't explain. Doing so would reveal classified information on another case I've worked on. You'll simply have to take my word for it."
I don't like that. I already have so many questions that any more might make my brain explode in frustration. But I give him a nod. "Okay, so I'm not completely wrong. What happens next?"
He puts his glasses back on to look at me. "I can say that what I've seen should bring more attention to this situation. I'll upload my report to the proper databases by tonight. At this point, it's all I can do. Sometime tomorrow, a local INKtech agent will visit you to continue looking into your case."
My breath hisses out. "Okay. Wow. I'm kind of floored right now. In a good way, I mean."
He nods and glances at Valentine's house again. "I'm glad I could help. I'd like to help even further by spending the night, but I'm due to leave tomorrow at dawn."
"It's okay. You already did a lot more than I expected." I hope he hears the honesty in my voice.
Something in it makes him look back at me, anyway. "Just hold out for a while longer; you're almost through fighting this on your own."
I wait for some sense of relief, but all I feel is a sudden pang as I look at him. "Thank you, Agent Glass."
His smile turns rueful. "Please. Gideon."
I nod. "Right. Destroyer." Then I hold out my hand, figuring this might as well be an official farewell. "Then I guess it's goodbye."
Instead of shaking it, he takes my hand into his own and bows over it until his lips nearly brush my skin, just like in old vids when a gentleman shows his respect for a lady. It should be ridiculousâI'm in sneakersâbut then he looks at me, and suddenly the rest of the world fades away.
"Goodbye, Firebird," he says, softly.
I don't know what to say. I don't know what I can say to keep this moment intact. But it's already gone. He straightens up, and I'm left blinking while he gets into his car, the skin on the back of my hand still prickling from where I felt the warmth of his breath. I do manage a little wave as the car pulls away, and something like a smile.
The jingle of metal warns me of Mrs. Kent's approach, and I don't move as she settles an arm around me. "Christ, girl, I don't know how you let him go at all."
When I don't say anything, she gives my shoulder a pat. "Don't worry. I won't tell that scrawny artist poser you hang around with about this. Girls need their fun. But don't expect me to be free every time he comes calling."
"That won't be a problem," I say, still staring down the street. It's the absolute truth. Gideon's gone. Five thousand miles gone. I got away with this without Elliot finding out, and now with the new agent, he won't ever need to. There's no problem at all.
It's the absolute truth, and I'm fucking miserable about it.