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“Rossi thinks lots of things.”

“So does Mathias,” he says.

I fall silent.

“You good?” he eventually asks.

“Yes.”

“You sure?”

“Why is everyone asking me that lately?”

“Because you’re acting weird,” Quillan says. “If there’s something about the kid complicating it, just tell Mathias.”

“I said there isn’t.”

“Sure.” His doubt hangs between us.

“Quillan.”

“Yeah?”

“Stay out of it.”

Silence. Long enough that I know he heard what I said.

Then, “What the fuck are you doing, Adrien?”

“My job.”

“Doesn’t fucking sound like it.”

“Then stop listening.”

I hang up, and the screen goes dark. Instantly, I regret it—not because Quillan took offense, but because now he knows there’s something here worth noticing.

I close my eyes and mutter, “Incompetent men.”

Except this time the incompetent man is me.

It’s been only days since I decided to keep my promise, and now the mere idea of Kamden Blake has me snapping at Quillan like a teenager caught stealing.

John would find that hysterical. I don’t even like that I still hear his laugh in my head.

Shortly before midnight, I slip back onto Kamden’s street because I tell myself I need to verify he’s home and that no other hitman is lurking around, which is bullshit, and I know it.

I park farther away this time, five houses down, under a streetlight that’s burnt out and flickering. Easier to see the duplex from here without being seen.

No cigarette this time. The pack is in my jacket pocket, and it stays there.

The duplex is mostly dark. The blinds are all drawn, but a faint yellow glow bleeds through the smaller window on the left—Kamden’s room. The other windows are dark.

Through the receiver, I hear almost nothing until I really focus.

It’s incredibly faint, but there’s a small repetitive scratch, like a mouse in a wall. I know they don’t have any pets.

I increase the volume, and that’s when I realize what it is. Pencil against paper.