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Not thank you for staying. Thank you for telling her. That distinction means more to me than it probably should.

Falcon:

I'll update you when we know anything that affects your security.

She sends back a single heart, and I stare at it like an idiot until Vulture leans across the table.

"Is that a heart?"

I turn the phone facedown again. "President or not, I will bury you."

"Definitely a heart," he says, laughing.

I get up. "I'm leaving."

"You're supposed to stay at the compound."

"I'm going to the kitchen."

"Still counts."

"Fuck off."

Harrier's behind the bar when I get there, and he puts a plate in front of me before I've asked for anything.

"Not hungry," I say.

"You slept four hours." What is it with people wanting to know how many hours I slept?

"Yesterday."

"How many last night?"

I don't answer, and he points at the plate, and I sit, because arguing with Harrier before food is never worth the effort.

Digger wanders in a few minutes later. The cut across his forehead looks better than it did yesterday. He’s still ugly, though.

He drops into the seat beside me with a cup of coffee.

“You going on the Merrick thing?” he asks.

“No.”

Digger glances at me. “Why not?”

“My job is here.”

“Does that piss you off?”

“Yes,” I admit.

“Okay.”

I turn toward him. “That’s all you’ve got?”

“Knox says being pissed off doesn’t automatically mean something is wrong.”

“When did Knox become your therapist?”