Oseki, ever composed, simply raised a single, perfect eyebrow. “Are you on retainer, Mr. Lyle?”
“Indeed,” he said smoothly. “All tenants of Greymarket Towers are provided with legal representation under our Community Continuance and Tenant Preservation Charter. It’s covered in the monthly fees, just after refuse collection and before the line item labeledmanifest hazard insurance.”
Oseki hesitated for only a fraction of a second. “There’s no line item for that in the municipal rental code.”
“There would not be,” Mr. Lyle said pleasantly. “We predate it.”
Goldie, still reeling, opened her mouth to ask one of the thousand questions suddenly screaming in her head. Mr. Lyle held up a finger, silencing her.
“Let us clarify the situation. Is my client being charged with a crime?”
Oseki exhaled slowly. “No. We are still reviewing the footage and assessing her involvement.”
“Then she is not under arrest?”
“Not at this time.”
“In that case,” Mr. Lyle said crisply, adjusting his lapels in a gesture of finality, “we shall be leaving.”
McCutchen looked like he wanted to object but couldn’t find a legal handhold. Oseki just nodded slowly, her thoughtful gaze fixed on Lyle.
Mr. Lyle turned to Goldie, the corner of his mouth lifting in the barest suggestion of a smile. “Shall we?”
Goldie stood. Her knees were wobbly, her brain more so, but her relief was tidal. She followed Mr. Lyle out of the room, barely resisting the urge to curtsy.
Outside, the air smelled of old rain and overgrown hedges. Goldie shivered and wrapped her arms around herself as they stepped down the concrete stairs.
Mr. Lyle adjusted his gloves and turned toward the parking lot. “My car is this way. I will drive you home.”
Goldie followed, half-floating. “You have a car?”
“Occasionally. It is less a car and more a summoning with wheels. But it gets the job done.”
They reached an unmarked black sedan that looked like it had been detailed by a mortician. The doors unlocked with a quiet, satisfying click. Inside, the air smelled of expensive leather, dried lavender, and secrets.
Mr. Lyle started the engine and pulled smoothly out of the parking spot. Goldie buckled herself in with fingers that trembled a little more than she liked. “How did you know?” she asked quietly. “That I needed… lawyering?”
Mr. Lyle didn’t look away from the road. “Your Maeve appeared in my office, chewed the nib of my best fountain pen, and began knocking items off my credenza until I paid attention. Which, as you know, is her preferred method of crisis escalation.”
Goldie let out a weak laugh that was half-sob. “She has a real gift for theatrics.”
“Indeed,” Mr. Lyle said. “And when a cat inconveniences itself on behalf of a human, I find it is best to pay attention. I left immediately.”
They drove in silence for a moment, the city blurring past the window. The tension in Goldie’s shoulders started to uncoil, just slightly, under the quiet certainty of being ferried safely home.
She glanced sideways at Mr. Lyle as they idled at a red light. He looked, as he always did, like he’d been pressed and folded into existence by a particularly stylish god. The sharp profile, the perfect collar, the salt-and-pepper hair swept back with a precision that made her think of pocket watches and veiled threats.
She had always found him handsome, in an antique sort of way. Like a portrait that might wink if you stared too long. Butright now, for the first time in days, she felt nothing. No flutter. No flush. No inconvenient heat blooming in her core.
Which was good. If she’d started getting flustered over her ancient, possibly immortal landlord-slash-attorney, she might’ve thrown herself directly into oncoming traffic.
Still. She eyed him again, just to be sure.
Nope. Nothing.
Mr. Lyle eased the car to a stop at the curb next to Greymarket Towers. The building loomed above them, all lit windows and listening shadows.
“Thank you,” Goldie said, fumbling for her bag.
