Page 199 of Wild Card 13

Sarah had stopped in at eight-thirty, tablet hugged to her chest, expression flat in the way that meant concern had been through several layers of professional translation.

“Go home after this,” she had said.

“I will.”

“You are lying.”

“I am prioritizing.”

“You are overfunctioning.”

My father had called at nine fifteen.

“Still there?” he had asked.

“No.”

He had sighed so heavily I could hear Lo in the background say, “Ezra, sweetheart, she gets that from you.”

“I’ll leave soon,” I had told him. I had looked across the office at Dottie, asleep with her chin on the edge of her bed, and felt something in my chest press inward.

“Lock up properly,” he said finally.

“I always do.”

“I know.”

Both of them had gone home anyway because they trusted me to make a decision and because I was an adult woman with a job title, a key card, and apparently an unreasonable tolerance for late-night administrative punishment.

“Are you still there?” Naomi asked.

I clicked the attachment on Charlotte’s email and saved it into the restricted legal folder. “Yes.”

“Were you thinking about Charlotte or Buzz?”

“Work.”

“Fine. I’ll allow it because hostile-workplace threat beats emotionally constipated hockey player on the urgency chart. Barely.”

“He is not emotionally constipated.”

“You just defended Ty Burns from constipation allegations.”

“I am going to hang up now.”

“You called me.”

“I regret that.”

“No, you don’t.” Her voice softened again, and that was worse somehow. Naomi could insult me into emotional honesty, but tenderness made me want to reorganize hard drives. “You’re sitting in an arena alone because the paperwork feels easier than going home and having to be quiet with yourself.”

My fingers stilled over the mouse. Dottie sighed in her sleep, a long, content sound that made the room feel briefly warmer.

“I’m not alone,” I corrected.

“The dog cannot talk.”

“She is still company.”