Page 59 of Black Reign

“At least he's real?”

I think about London Bridge.

Cold wind.

A man I may or may not have seen from farther down the river.

Missing cameras.

Ninety-seven minutes he apparently counted.

I stand and reach for my coat.

“That is actually part of the complication.”

Marc stares at me.

I leave enough cash beside my cup to cover breakfast.

“Goodbye, Marc.”

“Sabine?”

I turn.

He points toward himself.

“Was it the triathlon?”

I consider lying.

Then smile.

“A little.”

His laugh follows me onto the street.

Twenty minutes later, I'm sitting alone at another café because apparently one failed breakfast requires a second breakfast.

This one is tiny.

Hidden on a side street.

Four tables inside.

Three outside.

No tourists yet.

Perfect.

I choose the table farthest from the door, order coffee, then pull the matte-black device from my bag.

The normal phone remains untouched.

Ghost doesn't exist there.

Vesper doesn't either.