Meanwhile,

Author

The courtyard bench was cold. He didn't feel it.

Malphas - Voss, he reminded himself, though the name felt like a costume he was finally outgrowing - sat with the book open in his lap and read the same paragraph for the seventh time.

He wasn't retaining the words. He was using the book as an excuse to stay in one place. To be visible. To be available.

She was in the safehouse above the laundromat. He knew because Scorpio had told him. Scorpio, who had looked at him with the eyes of a man deciding whether to kill or trust, had said: She's thinking. Don't push.

He...