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Summary
“There are, like, five dead drops within a quarter mile of here. You could have sent a note.”
“How do you know I didn’t? There could be one sitting on your desk at HQ right now. Probably would have just gotten there.”
Deacon sat silent, expression infuriatingly passive around his shades. She did her best not to betray herself as she stared back at him, unflinching.
When he spoke, it was with a quiet certainty that she knew she couldn’t shake in him. “You didn’t send a note, Whisp.”
She willed herself still not to flinch, not to give. Eventually her gaze flicked off of him, like it'd been drawn by the world's strongest magnet.
Damn that intuition of his.
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