CHAPTER 4 #3
Because the city had felt wrong without her. Because every trip to New York had included the possibility of seeing her and the discipline not to try. Because I had built a career in Chicago and resented the arena for being the place she learned to leave.
“It affects security planning,” I said.
Coward.
Olivia heard the lie. “Of course.”
She stood and opened a cabinet, finding pasta and a jar of sauce. I took the saucepan from her.
“You burned eggs this morning,” she said.
“Pasta is water.”
“That confidence is how kitchens die.”
We cooked together anyway. She corrected the heat twice. I chopped garlic. She complained that I used too much. I used more.
At the island, we ate from bowls because she had not unpacked the plates from a cabinet above the refrigerator. The conversation drifted toward hockey because it was safer.
She asked why I played center.
“Control,” I said.
“Predictable.”
“The faceoff starts with two men and one puck. For half a second, everything is honest.”
“And after?”
“After, everyone lies with movement.”
She considered that. “You love it.”
“Yes.”
The admission came without defense.
“Even with my father?”
“I love the game. The team. The work. Robert does not own those things because he signs the checks.”
Olivia looked toward the windows. “I used to think the Titans belonged to my family.”
“They belong to the city.”
“And the players?”
“To themselves, if they are lucky.”
The irony settled between us.
She collected the bowls. I took them from her and washed them while she dried. It was absurdly ordinary. I wanted to remain inside the moment longer than it deserved.
When we finished, Olivia leaned against the counter. “You can close the guest-room door.”
“You said open.”
“I changed my mind.”
“Why?”
“Because I would like to sleep without feeling watched.”
The words were not yet an accusation. Later they would become one.
I nodded. “Closed.”
“Thank you.”
She went to her room.
I stood alone in the kitchen, looking at the place where her body had rested against the counter and wondering when protection had become the excuse I used for wanting proximity.
Then I entered the guest room, closed the door, and lay awake listening for danger I could name.
Hours later, I woke to silence.
Not ordinary silence. The wrong kind.
I reached for the weapon in my bag and moved into the hall.
Olivia’s bedroom door remained closed. The alarm panel glowed green.
A faint scrape came from the kitchen.
I rounded the corner.
Olivia stood beside the island in an old Titans sweatshirt, one hand gripping a heavy chef’s knife.
A dark shape moved outside the balcony door.
I crossed the room, placed myself between her and the glass, and raised the weapon.
The shape struck the window once.
Then spread its wings.
A crow lifted from the balcony rail and vanished into the snow.
Olivia lowered the knife. “You have a gun?”
“Licensed.”
“That was not my question.”
“You have a knife.”
“I live here.”
For one absurd second, we stared at each other.
Then she laughed.
Quietly at first, then with a hand over her mouth as though the sound had surprised her.
The tension inside me eased.
I set the weapon on the counter, out of reach but visible.
“Do not tell Adam,” I said.
“Why?”
“He will call me Crow Killer for the rest of my career.”
Her laughter softened into a smile.
She made tea. I attempted eggs and burned them badly enough that she took over. We sat at opposite ends of the island while snow whitened the city.
For twenty minutes, we did not discuss Parker, Robert, Evan, or danger.
She told me about a crisis-management firm in New York where a technology founder had accidentally insulted three countries in one interview. I told her Daniel once gave a postgame interview while wearing Luke’s suit because he had lost a bet.
The conversation was almost easy.
That frightened me more than the man in the tunnel.
At four seventeen, Olivia reached across me for the folder containing the access logs.
Her shoulder brushed my chest.
She stopped.
I looked down.
Her face was inches from mine. No anger between us now. No audience. Only the soft kitchen light, the smell of tea, and the knowledge that neither of us had moved away.
Her gaze dropped to my mouth.
My hand tightened around the edge of the counter.
“Olivia.”
She looked up.
A phone began vibrating in the guest room.
I swore and stepped back.
Ben’s name filled the screen when I reached it.
I answered. “What happened?”
His breathing came fast. “Someone broke into my apartment again.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No. Luke brought me to his place.”
“What did they take?”
“Nothing.”
The word chilled me.
“Then what?”
“They left something on my bed.”
A photograph arrived while he spoke.
It showed a printed schedule with Olivia’s name across the top. Meetings. Travel. Private appointments. Addresses.
Every detail of her next seven days.
Across the page, written in red marker, were four words.
PICK WHICH ONE SHE MISSES.
Olivia read over my shoulder.
The warmth left her face.
I looked at her bedroom door, her windows, the apartment that suddenly felt made of glass.
“One night is over,” I said.
She did not argue.