We drive for at least an hour before Eric comes to a stop some feet away from a small intersection up ahead. I can see people milling around, most with shopping bags in tow. After we park, he leads me into a little ice cream shop tucked between a music store and a tattoo parlor.
“Are we really getting ice cream?”
“You need to get something in your system,” he tells me. “Sugar’s the best way to do that. Pick a flavor.”
“I need to sit down first.”
We take a table adjacent to the window, more comfortable now with being seen. Eric sits down opposite me, his eyes darting around the parlor every few seconds.
“So we can’t rely on the agency, can we?” I ask.
“Then who do I rely on?”
The moment I voice the question out loud, Isaak’s face pops into my head. I reach into my jeans pocket and pu
