Anton nods as he leans against the driver's side door with his arms crossed, his eyes doing a slow, practiced sweep of the shop and the lot and the tree line beyond the fence before settling back on me. It's subtle enough that most people wouldn't clock it, but I do. Anton has always been careful about exits.
“So what do you want?” he ask flatly.
"I want to ask you something," I say. "And I want you to actually answer me."
"Depends on the question."
"Your supply chain," I say. "The medications that come through the Morder. Are you pulling from independent pharmacies?"
Anton's brows pull together, a slight crease appearing between them. "Why does that matter?" he asks.
"Answer the question, Anton."
He holds my gaze for a moment, still working it out behind his eyes. Then something shifts, a decision being made, and he uncrosses his arms briefly before pushing one hand in hispocket.
"I accept medications," he says carefully. "From various sources, and I pay well for them."
"That's a very clean way to put it," I say.
"It's accurate."
"Anton." I drop the pleasantness by one degree. "I've known you since you were seventeen years old, stealing catalytic converters out of my father's yard. Don't bullshit me." I cross my arms. "You've got runners and delivery guys. You've got a whole operation that sources product from small independent pharmacies because the big chains have security systems and loss prevention, and you can't touch them." I pause. "Which is fine. I don't care about any of that. That's your business."
Anton is very still.
"But I need to know about a specific pharmacy," I say. "And I need you to be straight with me."
Anton's jaw shifts slightly. "Ask it."
"Cassville Care Pharmacy," I say. "Three years ago. It was robbed and two pharmacists were killed." I watch his face carefully. "Was that your guys?"
The silence that follows is not the comfortable kind.
Anton's expression doesn't change dramatically. It doesn't need to. I've known this man long enough to read the smaller things. The slight tightening around his eyes. The almost imperceptible shift in his weight. The way his jaw sets a fraction harder than it had a second ago.
"No," he says.
I look at him for a long moment.
"I don't believe you," I say simply.
Anton meets my gaze and holds it. "Why does it fucking matter?" he asks. "What do you care about a three-year-old robbery?”
I look at him for a second, and for one brief moment Iconsider telling him that those pharmacists were Elle's parents. And that she was in the back room when it happened.
I glance back toward the shop instead.
Perrin has pushed the office door open and is leaning against the frame, saying something to Adam. Elowen tips her head back, laughing at whatever it is, her dark hair falling back from her face.
She looks happy.
I turn back to Anton and find that he's looking past me, his eyes fixed on Elowen with an expression that makes something territorial move through my chest.
But the longer I stare at Anton, the more I realize there’s no heat in his gaze.
It's worry.
"How's she doing?" he asks, his eyes still on the window.
