"Also in," I smirk. "Both responded with enthusiasm and a different version of'I'm going to need a LOT more details, but count me in."
"And they all deleted the evidence?" Knox asks, his fingers drumming a nervous, staccato rhythm against his knee.
"They all confirmed it in their reply, yes."
Knox nods. Satisfied. "Good. And what's our safe word?"
"Foxglove," I say.
Arthur's head turns toward me, looking amused.
"What? Do I have something on my face?" I pull up my front-facing camera, tilting my phone to check for stray mascara or a smudge.
"You just have the face of a kid really proud to show their drawing," he replies.
"I mean,yeah. Foxgloves are flowers. I'm a florist. It'll be perfectly inconspicuous." I cross my arms. "And it's specific enough that no one would accidentally say it in conversation."
Knox nods. "Indeed. So foxglove meansabort. If someone says it, we disengage and regroup. Bathroom, garden path, car—whatever exit makes sense."
Mason's eyes flick to the rearview mirror, catching mine for half a second. "We should probably also come up with a signal," he says.
"Not a bad idea," Knox agrees. "In case it gets loud and we can't hear each other, or if someone can't find a natural way to drop the wordfoxgloveinto conversation."
"Yep, fair point," Arthur concedes.
"How about a double-squeeze?" Knox suggests. "Hand, arm, shoulder, whatever you can reach. Two squeezes meansget me out."
“As long as you don’t try to squeeze my boobs,” I say, deadpan.
Arthur lets out a sudden, violent burst of laughter that catches me by surprise, and a low, gravelly huff escapes Mason from the driver's seat.
Knox, though, looks mildly horrified. “I—yes. No. Of course not.”
I snort. “I'm just kidding.”
"Oh," Knox blinks. “Yes, of course. Sorry. Good one."
"So, that's the playbook?" Arthur asks once he’s wrestled his laughter back down to a lingering, mischievous grin.
"Yes," Knox clears his throat, his voice recovering its usual composure. "It's simple and effective. That's all we need."
Then Arthur's hand lands on my thigh and squeezes twice. His palm is wide and steady, his heat soaking through the fabric ofmy pants, and something in my chest does a small, traitorous flip.
"That was a test," he says, grinning.
"Mm-hm," I manage, praying my voice doesn't sound as breathless as I suddenly feel.
***
Mason's truck slows as he takes a right turn. I see the house ahead, with at least twenty cars lining the street on both sides.
My stomach does a slow, heavy roll.
Arthur's hand presses against my hand.
"You good?" he asks, voice low.
I take a breath. Let it out. "Maybe?"
