He slowed near Sully’s—just as the door opened and Deck O’Rourke came out into the night.
The older man stopped short when he saw him.
For one beat, they just stood there.
Deck had his jacket slung over one shoulder, expression carved into its usual rough lines, silver at his temples catching the light from the sign behind him.
“Well,” Deck said. “If it isn’t the district attorney lurkin’ around town like a man with no good plan.”
Reid huffed a laugh.
“Good evening to you, too.”
Deck let the door swing shut behind him and took his time settling his jacket properly.
“You headed somewhere,” he said, “or just wearin’ grooves in our sidewalks?”
Reid slid a hand into his pocket and looked up the street toward nothing in particular.
“Undecided.”
“Christ,” Deck muttered. “That bad, is it?”
Reid looked back at him.
Deck studied his face for half a second, then came to whatever conclusion he needed.
“Ah,” he said. “Worse. You’re thinkin’.”
“That’s, generally, how most of us make decisions.”
“Not well, from what I’ve seen.”
Despite himself, Reid smiled.
Deck noticed but didn’t comment. Instead, he shifted his weight and looked out over Main Street.
“She’s back,” Deck said.
Reid went still.
The movement was slight. Barely there. But Deck caught it anyway.
“I figured as much,” Reid said evenly.
“Did you?”
A challenge, not a question.
Reid exhaled.
“I saw her car.”
“Mm.”
Deck folded his arms.
“And yet, here you are,” he said, “standin’ outside a bar three blocks from her place lookin’ like a man drafting closing arguments in his own head.”
