“Nolan,” he said finally.
There it was.
I kept my face the same.
“No last name?”
“You didn’t give yours.”
“You don’t need it.”
“Then neither do you.”
I leaned a little closer, not into the car, just enough to change the space between us.
“You got business at The Spoke?”
“Maybe.”
“Then go inside.”
“I might.”
“You would’ve already.”
That landed.
He shifted slightly in the seat, not backing off, not moving forward either. That kind of hesitation meant he was weighing things, trying to decide how much he could push before it turned on him.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
He reached for his phone.
Slow.
Careful.
I didn’t move, but every part of me locked onto it. His thumb tapped the screen, and he turned it toward me before I told him not to.
A picture filled it.
Mira.
