Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 97537 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97537 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
“Both are gases,” I say, and she huffs, tension breaking for a beat.
He arrives on the late side of ten. Merritt Voss walks into Cicely’s like he owns equity in the concept of dim light. He’s smaller than he wanted to be when he grew up—compact, curated, wearing a navy suit with the kind of lapels you can only buy if you use the word bespoke without choking. He smells like expensive wood and litigation. He sits at the bar, perches, and signals for something neat the bartender pours without asking. People look. Not everyone. Enough.
“On him,” Ozzy breathes into my ear, the bone-conduction earpiece tickling my jaw. “No date. He’s peacocking solo.”
“Copy,” Render murmurs. “Alley clear. Back door propped by a bucket that says ice even though there’s definitely no ice in it.”
Knight takes a long drink and sets the glass down like punctuation. “He’s waiting.”
He is. Every line of him hums appointment. He checks his watch twice in two minutes. His leg bounces once—a controlled flick, like he regrets having a body. He doesn’t notice me at all. He doesn’t notice Knight. He doesn’t notice anything until he notices Juno.
It happens between blinks. His head turns in idle scan, and then his gaze snags like he’s been hooked by his lip. Recognition smacks him. It isn’t the excited kind, not the oh hey, I love your podcast buzz Juno still occasionally gets at grocery stores when she dares to buy apples like a human. This recognition tastes like a problem. He recognizes her like oh hey, I killed your sister.
His face doesn’t change much. Men like Merritt train for this. But the pupils blow, the mouth tightens, the hand slides off the bar an inch like it wishes it knew how to run. He picks up his glass anyway, swallows something that burns, puts it down with careful fingers, and stands.
“Eyes,” I say, and everyone moves a millimeter closer in their heads.
Merritt doesn’t go for the front door. He slices through the room, tight smile for a man he recognizes from maybe a luncheon that raised money for something you’d never google, and finds the service hallway without asking for directions.
Juno’s chair scrapes softly. I catch her hand under the table and squeeze one beat: We go. We don’t sprint. She squeezes back: Not sprinting, just hunting.
I toss some bills on the table. Knight slides from his stool. Ozzy loses two dollars on a coaster trick and abandons it like a ship at sea. I rise, and Juno is already in motion.
The back door clicks. The alley air tastes like wet stone and secrets. Merritt’s shadow cuts across brick.
“South,” Render whispers. “Left at the dumpster, straight for the lot.”
We fan without looking like we planned it. Knight peels wide, parallel on the street. Ozzy drops behind a parked SUV and gives us a thumbs-up nobody sees. Juno and I move like two pieces of fabric in the same wind.
Merritt doesn’t run. Men like Merritt don’t run unless someone tells them it’ll look good on a security camera. He brisk-walks to a black sedan and tosses a look over his shoulder that lands a foot to my left. He gets in. The taillights flare. He pulls out like a person who wants to believe he’s not being followed.
We follow. Not glued to his bumper. Not sloppy. Knight slides in behind him two cars back, and we drift one lane over like we’re going somewhere less important. Ozzy calls out green lights like a baseball announcer trying to be subtle. Render ghosts us on side streets.
“Pinecrest,” Knight says after eight minutes of nothing. “He’s boring himself home.”
He is. Merritt’s split-level is the kind I could diagram in my sleep—slate-gray siding, too-big potted shrubs, a porch light controlled by an app that pushes smug notifications. He eases into the drive. We glide past like good citizens and find a spot a house down where no one will burn if anyone asks later.
Juno’s breath is steady, which is wild considering I can see the memory of a finger gun reflected in her eyes like a bad sky. She doesn’t wait. She gets out. Ozzy tosses me the bag with the masks and a pair of thin gloves we pretend are not ridiculous. Knight rolls his shoulders and exhales like he’s about to do something he’ll pretend not to be good at.
“Gage?” I murmur into the comm. “We’re at Voss.”
His voice arrives through my earpiece. “Phone lines quiet. No calls out from his number since Stonehouse.”
“Copy,” I say, because he’s on the hook for a thousand plausible deniabilities and I’ll thank him for it later.
We mask up. Ozzy hands Juno the Ghostface she ordered off Amazon in a moment of gallows humor. She lifts it, pauses. I can see her mouth—the mouth that just told me she loved me—set into a thin line.