Total pages in book: 39
Estimated words: 35507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 178(@200wpm)___ 142(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 35507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 178(@200wpm)___ 142(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
She almost smiles and leaves us. Colt's eyes keep moving. Door. Street glass. Me. Then the street glass again. His attention never sits still. Sitting next to it makes my pulse climb in a way I refuse to give him credit for.
"So," I say. "Regroup. That's the word you used. Catch me up before you start growling in complete sentences."
"Helix hit the cabin because they already had you on a string. They knew my name because they've been in this hunt longer than I wanted to admit. Banks’s on the phones. We're not going back up that road tonight."
"And the diner plan is what? Hide in plain sight until the pie arrives?"
"The diner plan is five minutes to let the street settle and to get you off that yellow target. Then I'm taking you to people I trust."
"You said Crewe."
"Crewe if we have to run farther. Right now I need local. Equinox. Alden North. He built a shop in the old mill and he doesn't spook when a Hawthorne shows up bleeding trouble."
I wrap both hands around the mug. The ceramic is almost too hot. "Equinox?"
“Equinox Security. I work there on days when I’m not busy doing other shit.”
I nod.
"But these past few months I’ve been busy looking for my father."
“When did he go missing?” I ask him, and my voice is lower than I intend for it to be. And it’s the first time I’ve realized how serious I am. There’s no sting or flirt to my voice.
“Years ago. We actually thought he was dead for a really long time. Then we started getting sightings of him sent to us. My brother, Nash, he’s the oldest, had a man named Dean Maddox tell us he’s alive.”
“And you all believe him?”
He nods, and scrubs a hand down his beard. “Saw him a few months ago. We finally thought we had all the answers, then he was taken and the trail went cold. I was checking on a few leads nearby, and ran into you.”
“Lucky me.” And honestly it is lucky. “I’d be dead by now if you hadn’t.” And for the first time since the first bullet shot through the air, I realize… Colt Hawthorne has saved my life. A warm feeling rushes through my chest and I feel tingly all over, and I hate myself for that. I shake it off, and lean back into teasing. “So Equinox Security. Alden. He’s trustworthy?”
“Yeah, he’s a good friend.”
"You have friends. I'm writing that down." I smile at him and he gives me this very attractive, very cute half-smirk.
"Write quieter."
The pie lands between us, one plate, two forks, an unspoken dare. I take a bite because I said I would. It's tart and decent and the first ordinary thing that's happened since I ran into a wall of flannel on that ridge. Colt doesn't touch his fork. He watches the door without blinking long enough to count.
"You're allowed to eat," I tell him.
"I'm allowed to leave you here and walk the lot. I'm not going to. Eat faster."
"Has anyone successfully fired you from being like this?"
"Plenty have tried. They're not sitting in this booth."
I eat faster, mostly to spite him, partly because the diner's fluorescent light is starting to feel too bright on my face. Every time the bell over the front door jumps, his shoulder tightens. Mine does too. The coffee does nothing for the jump in my hands.
When the plate is empty he drops cash on the table and stands. "Now we move."
"A thank you for the pie wouldn’t kill you."
"I'll send a card."
Outside, the fog has thinned to a damp film on the brick. He puts me in the truck without asking and I let him, which I will deny later if he looks too satisfied about it. We take the river road out of the little grid of Main Street, past the mural of the falls, toward a long brick mill on the water.
The sign on the rebuilt loading dock is small and clean. EQUINOX PROTECTION GROUP. Under it, in smaller letters, The Foundry.
"This is your side hustle," I say.
"This is where I go when I need a building that doesn't fold after two shots through a window."
He parks in a gated lot along the river. A woman in a black coat is already crossing the pavement toward us before the engine dies. She’s sharp in that expensive, unhurried way, dark hair twisted up, tablet under one arm, eyes doing math on my hoodie and Colt's scraped knuckles at the same time.
"Hawthorne," she says. "You're late for a man who doesn't make appointments."
"Marin. This is Oakley Vega. She's with me."
Marin Wolfe looks at me with velvet, brutal attention, already sorting me into columns. "Freelance photographer. Chicago kill fee last April. You're the fuse Banks flagged."
"I'm the person attached to the fuse," I say. "Nice to meet you too."