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“It isn’t him,” she groans into her hand. “What now? We’ve literally looked at every male employee who worked at Veridian Pharmaceuticals at the time of the bombing.”

I can only think of one thing to do. I also know that Star will fight me on it. I don’t want to fight with her today. I don’t think she’s up for it.

“Let’s go back to the hotel. We’re tired.” I start the car.

“We need a plan.”

I shake my head. “We need good food and some sleep. We’ll come up with a plan in the morning.”

“We need something solid, Flint. We’re shooting blanks.”

“We’ll figure something out,” I tell her.

She doesn’t answer. She turns her face further toward the glass.

Fuck.

I hate how sad she looks.

It kills me.

I put my hand on her leg and squeeze.

She puts hers over mine, so I leave it there.

56

Star

I stand under the shower for a while after I am finished washing. The hot water feels good on my skin.

I can’t believe that Veridian was a bust.

It feels like we’re missing something. I can’t think of what that is. I keep racking my brain and coming up empty.

I turn off the water, towel off, and pull on sweatpants and the biggest, softest T-shirt I own. I look at my closed laptop and think about opening it but decide against it.

What would I look for?

I lie back on the bed and stare at the ceiling, feeling like a failure. I know I’m being dramatic, but I can’t help how heavy I feel.

It feels like we take five steps forward and then just as many back again. I feel like we’re no further. If anything, there are more questions.

I hate this. I hate lying here feeling sorry for myself. That isn’t who I am. I managed to stay upbeat for five long-ass years, and look at me now.

There’s a knock at the door, and even though I know who it is, I don’t feel too much better.

I don’t move. I could pretend to be asleep.

Flint wouldn’t buy it, and he’d keep knocking. I know him.

“Star?” It’s muffled through the door.

Just as I thought. I sigh and get up.

I open the door. Normally, one look at him is enough to lift my mood. The male is unfairly hot. He’s standing there in jeans and a tight white T, and nothing happens.

He lifts the bags. They’re looped over both wrists, and there’s a brown paper one tucked under his arm. Then the aroma hits me. Fried chicken. Garlic. Something cheesy.