Page 52

“Yes.”

The river suddenly sounds louder as a silence falls between us.

I look at him then, really look.

Ashby Knox isn't soft, I realize. Nothing about him suggests softness. But there's care in his precision, a sensitivity buried so deep under discipline that most people probably mistake it for distance.

Maybe he prefers it that way.

I understand that too well.

“Thank you,” I say.

His gaze returns to mine. “For what?”

“For telling me. For Ben.”

He nods once, but before he can speak again a phone rings.

For one foolish second, my heart jumps because I think it might be Maggie, so I snatch the phone from my pocket.

My heart sinks, and I swallow disappointment. It’s not Maggie.

It’s Julian Mercer, my boss.

The old world, reaching across state lines with clean deadlines and solvable problems.

I stare at the screen while it keeps ringing.

“Go ahead and take it,” Ashby says. I almost don’t, then habit wins.

I answer. “Hey, Julian.”

Julian exhales in relief. “Laurel. Hi. I’m sorry to bother you.”

Everyone says that before bothering you. “It’s fine.”

“I know you’re out on reduced availability, and please, if this is a bad time⁠—”

“What’s happening?”

“The Haversham timeline is collapsing. We have three vendor dependencies out of sync, legal hasn’t approved the revised implementation language, and Martin promised the client a Monday deliverable without checking capacity.”

My entire nervous system reorganizes itself.

Finally, a problem with edges I can get hold of.

“When did Martin promise Monday?”

“Yesterday evening.”

“Right.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Send me the latest dependency chart and the client notes.”

“I already did.”

“Of course you did,” I mutter. “Give me the summary.”

Julian obliges.