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“Actually, he just showed up today for the first time in two years.”

Nash blinks. “Where was he before that?”

“Who knows. Likely wreaking havoc on someone else’s life.”

“Does he do that often? Come and go for long periods of time?”

“That raccoon does whatever he wants.”

Nash looks at Echo for a moment. Echo looks back with the unblinking assessment of a creature who is trying to decide if Nash has anything shiny enough or expensive enough to interest him.

Then Nash looks back at the map and says, “I envy him that.”

I want to ask what he means, but it feels too personal. A question like that will only lead to more moments like last night. And I can’t afford to open that door. Not now.

As if in support of us both, Echo sets a decorative stone on the windowsill and disappears. I look back at my tablet, my heart strangely warm. I’ve missed that stupid raccoon.

7

MIA

We’re still in the conference room when my phone rings. It’s Donahue, which is an immediate red flag. Donahue doesn’t call unless something has already gone wrong, and he’s already done everything he can think of to take care of it himself.

I answer on the second ring. “What happened?”

“Fire,” he says, breathless and struggling to shove the word out.

“Fire? Where?”

“At Solano’s. I just got the call from emergency dispatch. It’s— Mia, it’s bad.”

The words hit me somewhere below the sternum. I’m already moving before he finishes the sentence, leaving all my stuff behind. “Crow?”

“I don’t know. First responders are on their way.”

I stop walking for exactly one second. One second where the map room, the overlays, Nash standing on the other side of the table watching me with those steady dark eyes—all of it goes somewhere far away.

Then I start moving again.

“I’m on my way.”

“Me too,” he says before I hang up.

Nash is already moving with me. He doesn’t ask if I want company. He doesn’t ask if I’m okay. He just falls into step beside me and matches my pace down the corridor and out through the east wing doors to where my car is parked, and I hand him the keys without thinking because my hands are doing something that isn't quite shaking but isn’t quite steady either.

He drives.

I stare at the city moving past the window and think about Bobby polishing glasses at the end of the bar with the same energy he’d applied to that task for twenty years. I think about the morning crowd and the new windows letting in rectangles of light and the way Solano’s had started to smell like garlic and fresh bread instead of cigars and corruption.

I think about Claire waiting tables.

Crow finding peace.

The drive takes six minutes. It feels like sixty. I barely hear the voice of the navigation system reading out directions.

Nash calls Grey on the way, which I realize belatedly is something I should have done. But from the few words Nash offers, it sounds like Grey already knows. Nash suggests they stay at the house with Lexi until we know more. Then he hangs up. I can’t even ask for details.

I’m too shaken by the view.