Chapter 19 #2
"I'll make calls this afternoon. I know two people in Washington, DC, not state, who handle exactly this kind of thing.
Shifter civil rights, corporate accountability.
They'll want to see your documentation before they commit, but what you're describing, twenty-six properties, hidden project codes, systematic targeting, that's not a borderline case. That's a program."
"That's what I said." Nico's voice is steady, but his hand on the mug hasn't unclenched.
"Nicholas." Martin again. The softer voice, the one that costs him something. "You're going to lose your job over this."
"I know."
"And you're sure."
"I've been sure since I found the first property on the list. A woman named Rosa Navarro ran a motorcycle repair shop in Spokane for fifteen years.
I closed that acquisition. I sat across from her and made a polite offer and I didn't know what I was helping do.
" His voice cracks. Barely, a hairline fracture. "I know now."
The phone is quiet. I can hear Martin breathing — steady, measured, a man working through something that doesn't fit his usual architecture.
"Your father," Martin says. Stops. Starts again. "Your father would have done the same thing."
Nico closes his eyes.
I reach across the bar and put my hand on his. He doesn't pull away. His fingers curl around mine, tight, holding on.
"I'll have names for you by tonight," Martin says.
The lawyer is back, efficient, professional.
But something has shifted underneath — a tectonic plate moving by millimeters, invisible from the surface but changing the landscape permanently.
"Don't send anything until I've confirmed the right contact. And Nicholas—"
"Yeah."
There's a muffled sound — a door, voices in the background. Then a new voice, bright and clear and so different from Martin's measured precision that it's like someone switched radio stations.
"Is that Nico? Uncle Martin, is that Nico? Give me the phone."
"Cassandra, I'm in the middle of—"
"Give me the phone, I need to tell him about Charlotte's party. Nico!"
Nico's eyes fly open. He mouths oh no at me and reaches for the phone but it's too late — Cass is already talking at full speed.
"Nico, I wore the green dress. You were right, it was perfect, Charlotte was furious because she wore green too but mine was better — obviously — and David asked me to dance and his hands were sweaty but in a cute way?
Is sweaty hands a good sign or a bad sign?
I think it's a good sign. Also I tried the champagne and it was terrible, why do adults pretend to like champagne? "
"Cass," Nico says. "You're on speakerphone."
"So?"
"So there are other people here."
"Where's here? Are you still in that little town? Who's listening? Is it the nachos bar people?"
I look at Nico. Nico looks at the ceiling.
"Yes," he says. "It's the nachos bar people."
"Oh my God, hi! I'm Cass. Nico talks about you. Well, he doesn't talk about you because Nico doesn't talk about anything, but he mentioned the nachos three times in one conversation which is basically a love letter from him."
Jason makes a sound behind the bar that he turns into a cough. Robin, who arrived at some point during the call with a box of pastries and an expression that can only be described as aggressively supportive, doesn't bother disguising his laugh.
"Cass—"
"Is the bartender there? The one with the spreadsheets? Nico told me about the bar top — the oak one? He said someone's grandfather built it and he sounded weird about it. Like, emotionally weird. Which for Nico is—"
"Cassandra."
"What?"
"I'm going to hang up now."
"Don't you dare. I haven't told you about David's shoes. They were terrible, Nico. Brown brogues with a blue suit. I almost didn't dance with him."
"But you did."
"His hands were very sweaty. That has to mean something."
Nico is pinching the bridge of his nose, but he's smiling. The real one, the one that changes his whole face, the one I've seen only a handful of times and am now adding another instance to my catalog.
"The green dress was the right call," he says. "David's shoes are fixable. Champagne is terrible and adults are lying. I'll call you tomorrow."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
"Tell the spreadsheet bartender I said hi."
Nico looks at me. I feel my face do something that is either a smile or a complete loss of muscular control.
"He says hi back," Nico says.
"OH MY GOD is he right th—"
Nico hangs up.
The bar is very quiet for about two seconds.
Then Jason loses it — a full, helpless laugh that he tries to muffle with a dish towel.
Robin is grinning into his pastry box. Even Silas has looked up from his book with an expression that on anyone else would be amusement and on Silas is the slight elevation of one eyebrow.
"She's eighteen," Nico says to no one in particular. "She has the energy of several small explosions."
"I like her," I say.
"Everyone likes her. It's a problem." He looks at the phone. At our hands, still intertwined on the bar. At me. "She called you the spreadsheet bartender."
"I've been called worse."
"She said I sounded emotionally weird about the bar top."
"You did."
"I sounded factually interested in the craftsmanship."
"Nico. You told your sister about the oak. Unsolicited."
He opens his mouth. Closes it. The tips of his ears go pink — a thing I didn't know Nico's ears could do and am now extremely invested in making happen again.
"I was being thorough," he says.
"Mm."
"It's a nice bar top."
"Mm-hm."
"Stop saying 'mm.'"
"Mm."
He squeezes my hand. I squeeze back.
But there's weight underneath the lightness. The Martin call — are you safe, your father would have done the same thing. I watched it hit him. I watched years of distance crack in one phone call, and the fracture is still fresh.
"He said your father would have done the same thing," I say. Quietly, under the noise of Jason laughing and Robin texting.
"I heard."
"Are you okay?"
"He's never — in twelve years, he's never mentioned my father like that. Like he knew him as a person, not just as a brother who died." Nico's voice is steady, but his hand in mine isn't. "I don't know what to do with it."
"You don't have to do anything with it right now."
"That's becoming your answer for everything."
"Because it keeps being true."
He looks at our hands on the bar. His and mine, intertwined, fingers locked. The bar that Knox's grandfather built, that Knox's father milled, that holds people who chose each other and keeps holding them.
"Okay," he says. "Okay."
"Okay."
Jason is still laughing. Robin is texting Vaughn — probably a full report, probably with emojis. Silas turns a page.
"Sweaty hands are a good sign," Silas says, to no one, and goes back to his book.
The bar holds us. The way it always does. The way it was built to.