Marlowe
King showed up at my bay with two helmets and no explanation, which was, by now, exactly the kind of thing that no longer surprised me even a little.
"Day off," he said, tossing me one. "Club runs itself for six hours. I intend to be somewhere that isn't here."
"That's oddly specific."
"Get on the bike, Finch."
I got on the bike.
We ended up an hour out from Ember Hollow, at a lake I hadn't known existed, water so still it looked painted on, and for the first time since I'd cut my own hair off in a bathroom mirror, I spent an entire afternoon being nobody's prospect and nobody's secret — just a person, sitting on a rock in the sun beside a man who'd stopped, somewhere in the last several weeks, feeling like a threat I needed to manage.
"You're quiet," he said, eventually.
"
