Page 119 of The Exit Strategy

I also angle my monitor to the far wall for good measure.

And finally, I get to work.

My first real breakthrough comes an hour later—an address.

One of Devin’s shell companies routes through an LLC registered to a PO Box in Charleston. A quick plug into GPS tells me that it’s only ninety minutes from here. Close enough that somebody, at some point, drove there on purpose. Close enough that this is not a man who disappeared into the ether with his spoils—this is a man who set up shop a tank of gas away, living off the fruits of someone else’s labor.

And it pisses me off.

I stare at the address for a long time.

I could go ream this guy a new asshole. I’d even enjoy it.

Six weeks ago, I would’ve already been halfway there because Viper does not sit on information that can be weaponized.

At least not when someone so clearly deserves it.

My fingers move over the keyboard of their own will. It’s like an out-of-body experience I have no control over as they click a few buttons to email myself the address.

Then I stare straight ahead and sit on my hands so I don’t grab my keys.

Cole asked me to give him until the end of the week. That’s three more days. He asked me, to my face, for three days, and he doesn’t ask for anything, ever. My mind is attempting to rebel at the idea of giving it to him because I was raised on Fen’s operational philosophy of ask forgiveness, not permission.

But Cole isn’t Fen, and this isn’t a college prank. The Junie that would’ve driven to Charleston by lunch is not,apparently, the version of me that got out of his bed this morning.

I drum a solid beat against the grain of the wood table I work at every day, and the engagement ring I shouldn’t be wearing catches too many damn rays of light.

Old Junie wouldn’t be wearing the ring, and old Cole wouldn’t have asked for three days.

That’s progress, so I close out of the damn spreadsheet, and give him the damn three days.

I don’t know how to reconcile pre- and post-Colegasm Juniper.

Or when I started thinking about myself in the third person.

This is, I’m pretty sure, what people mean when they talk about personal growth, and I would like it noted for the record that it’s supremely annoying.

My phone buzzes, and for once I’m thankful for the distraction that is Fenway Jones.

Right up until I swipe across the screen and see his message.

Fen: Don’t freak out.

I slowly spin my chair so Cole can’t see what’s happening with my face.

Junie: What did I say about telling me not to freak out? You need to work on your freaking delivery, Fenway!

Junie: Telling me not to freak out makes me freak the fuck out.

Fen: Fair.

Fen: Okay, freak out. A little. A controlled freak-out. Like a prescribed burn.

Oh my God. Am I breathing in shards of glass? I must be. Right? That’s why my throat feels this way?

Fen: Grace is cooked, Spite-Berry.

I stare at my screen while my fingers tremble over letters.