Page 635 of End Game

There are already shelves.

But Griffin discovered the wall near the window contains “wasted vertical storage potential,” which is the kind of phrase that should probably come with a warning label.

Ronan is in the armchair beside him with his laptop, doing something that could be actual work, campaign planning, household finances, or a complex statistical model explaining why Dex should no longer be allowed to buy decorative pillows.

I have learned not to ask until necessary.

Dex suddenly swivels his laptop. “Cami.”

“What?”

“Say hi to Austin.”

He turns the screen fully toward me.

Austin Fletcher appears in a small box wearing a baseball cap backward and looking exactly like a man who has spent the last ninety minutes arguing with Dex about seven seconds of music.

He lifts a hand. “Hey, Cami.”

I wave. “Hi, Austin. Sorry about him.”

“Thank you.”

Dex gasps and swivels the computer back.

Austin laughs. “See? Someone understands.”

“I live with her.”

“Exactly. Expert witness.”

I laugh.

Dex turns the laptop back around. “Betrayal everywhere. This is why artists die misunderstood.”

Austin's laugh crackles through the speakers.

Three months ago, Dex would have spent a week alternating between freaking out and pretending this was no big deal.

Now Austin calls him on a Saturday afternoon because they are still fine-tuning two tracks from Chicago and apparently considering another collaboration afterward.

Dex still acts like an idiot about it.

But he doesn't act like it isn't happening anymore.

That's different.

Good different.

Since I’m hungry, I glance at my blood sugar.

112

Flat arrow.

Boring—beautifully, wonderfully boring.

Nobody is hovering.