Page 50 of You Can Run

Jessica shifted closer, her knee brushing his beneath the table, her body angling toward him in a way that would read, to anyone watching, as easy and familiar.

“So what do normal married people talk about in bars?” she asked.

“Mortgages. School districts. Which neighbor's dog keeps shitting on their lawn.”

She almost smiled. “We don't have a lawn.”

“We don't have a mortgage either.” His thumb kept moving on her knuckles. “But we've got a classic ‘Cuda and two borrowed toothbrushes, so we're basically living the dream.”

Her almost-smile became something closer to real.

“So tell me something,” she said. “Something I don't know about you.”

He raised an eyebrow slightly. “You know everything about me.”

“I know everything about the version of you from two years ago. What about after?” She tilted her head. “What did you do with your life?”

He was quiet for a moment, his gaze dropping to their hands. “Same as ever. Fixed cars. Didn't talk to anyone. Didn't go anywhere.”

“For two years?”

“For two years.”

“Were you okay?” she asked.

He looked at her, and she saw him consider lying about it. “No,” he said.

She squeezed his hand.

The burner phone in his pocket buzzed.

Dante pulled back immediately, the shift instant, his focus snapping into place as he checked the message.

WEST END. MILE MARKER 14. BLUE STILT HOUSE. KEY UNDER THE COOLER.

“Time to go,” he said.

Jessica slid out of the booth with him, and they moved through the bar, trying to appear like just another couple leaving after a drink, hands still loosely linked.

Outside, the sky had darkened toward something that promised rain.

They walked in silence for a block, then another, the noise of the waterfront fading as they cut back toward the garage. Jessica felt the change in Dante, a tightening in his posture, his gaze lingering on passing cars, on reflections in darkened windows, on anything that didn't sit right.

By the time they stepped into the garage, his unease had hardened into something solid.

The air inside was cooler but stale, their footsteps echoing between rows of parked cars.

“Stay close,” Dante said.

Jessica glanced at him. “What is it?”

He didn't answer right away. His attention was moving across the level, car to car, without settling on any one thing.

Then he stopped.

A police cruiser sat two rows over, angled slightly off-center in its space, Texas plates catching what little light filtered in from the open sides of the structure.

Jessica watched Dante's face go still in a way that made her stomach drop.