I count out the cash—I have more now thanks to the carnival wages—and put it on the desk. She folds the bills and records them in a small ledger that appears from a drawer.
“One more thing,” I say.
“Yes?”
“If you find anything else…”
“I’ll knock on Doris Harrow’s door. Or the Calloway’s front door. Whichever seems appropriate.” She looks at me over her spectacles with the clear direct attention that I have decided is her default setting. “I’ve been watching that pack for seven years. They’re good people.” She pauses. “You fit.”
I look at her.
“Don’t argue with me,” she says pleasantly. “I’ve been doing this for thirty-nine years. I know when someone fits somewhere.”
I don’t argue with her. I take a shortbread from the plate and stand. My gaze sweeps past the wall of green journals, the orange cat, the rose lamp, and the woman behind the desk who found Daniel Marsh from a small office in a small town using contacts and favors and thirty-nine years of knowing how people work.
“Thank you,” I say sincerely.
“Come back if you need me,” she replies, alreadyopening a different file. “And send that lawyer of yours my way if they want the full notes. Professional courtesy.”
“I will.”
I stepped outside into the cobblestone morning.
I put the shortbread in my mouth and I take out my phone. I call my friend Scarlet. She’s a lawyer, one I’ve known since grade school.
* * *
After working Tristan’s booth all afternoon and into the evening, I return to the pack house for dinner again.
Tonight Ryan passed behind me to get to the window and his hand—just his fingers, briefly—rested on the back of the couch near my shoulder. Not on my shoulder. Near. The heat of it reached me through my clothes and I felt my whole back go very still.
He said something to Jack across the room, unremarkable, something about the morning setup schedule, and his hand was gone again. I stared at the tea in my hands and breathed through it.
I am becoming very good at breathing through things.
By nine o’clock I’ve drifted sideways on the couch. I notice this in the objective way of someone assessing a situation from a position of scientific detachment. I have drifted sideways, toward the middle cushion, because the cushion there is better. The one I was on has a slight unevenness, and the middle one doesn’t, and this is the only reason.
The middle cushion puts me closer to Jack.
Jack has not moved. He is in exactly the position he was two hours ago, except he’s traded his phone for a catalogue of something, game equipment by the look of it, and he’s reading it with the focus he applies to things he actually cares about. His arm is on the back of the couch and has been there long enough that when I drifted, his arm is now behind me without either of us having done anything.
The warmth of him reaches my back through my clothes. I keep my eyes on the television and drink my tea.
“You’ve been here since six,” he says, not looking up from the catalogue.
“I know.”
“That’s three hours.”
“I can do math.”
“Just noting.” He turns a page. “Tristan’s going to make a late dinner.”
“I’ll go before—”
“It’s already made. He started an hour ago.” He says it with the neutrality of someone who knows that the wordalreadydoes the work they need it to do. “Easier to stay.”
I look at the tea. “Easier,” I say.
