I hear him before I see him. That big, unhurried tread—in no rush for anything, ever. He stops beside me and looks out at the yard like he’s got all evening to spend on it.
“You’re far from home,” I say.
“Viktor called me in for a confab.” He doesn’t say what about. “What’s your excuse?”
“On a job.”
He doesn’t ask what I’m working. I don’t ask what Viktor wanted. If the bear clan leader’s been called in, it’s confidentialanyway. And bears don’t pry the lid off what another one’s keeping shut.
We stand there a while, watching the yard go about its evening.
Except I’m not watching the yard.
She comes out of the storage block, folder under one arm, head down. Torbjorn tracks my eyes straight to her. He misses nothing. Never has.
“Huh.”
I don’t answer.
“She’s got most of your attention.” Not a question.
“She’s interesting.”
“That what she is?” He looks at her a moment longer, then back at the yard. “Solitary bear, standing watch over a small wolf.”
“She’s interesting.” Like saying it twice makes it true.
He cuts me a look. Doesn’t push it—bears don’t—but he’s seen what he’s seen. She reaches the main door and goes through it. He pushes off the wall and heads for the gate. No parting word. He’s never needed one.
I look at the door she went through longer than I should.
The access is real. The timing’s real. And none of it fits. A thin trail pointing clean at one person is usually the easy answer, not the right one.
And the bear’s quiet. He’s never gone quiet over anyone I’ve been hired to judge.
But I’ve made mistakes before. I know what they cost.
So I don’t clear her.
I don’t call her guilty either. The wrongness could be the trap. A trail just messy enough to read amateur, just clean enough to read innocent.
So I keep watching. I keep her file open. I tell myself it’s the case.
It’s getting harder to make that the whole truth.
I still can’t tell if I’m hunting her or being hauled toward her.
Chapter 4
Grace
Kaylin has paint chips fanned across her bed like a hand of cards, and she’s dead serious about all of it.
“Not this one.” She flicks a pale green square off the pile. “This one made me think of hospital walls.”
“They’re all the same,” I say.
“They are not all the same.” She holds up two that look, to me, exactly the same. “This one’ssage. This one’seucalyptus. There’s a difference.”
