Page 20 of Shadow

Wow, coincidence much?

Her brain recalculated fast. She could leave now. Regroup. Meet him at nine as planned. But that meant abandoning breakfast and looking suspicious.

Stay. Don’t react. Observe.

She sipped her coffee and watched him in her peripheral vision. He didn’t move except to breathe. Didn’t look around or acknowledge anyone else. Just stared into his mug.

She recognized the look of bone-deep weariness.

Daphne knew that exhaustion. Had worn it herself after leaving the Marshals Service, after the betrayal, after losing a witness because she’d trusted the wrong person.

But exhaustion didn’t make someone innocent.

Millie emerged from the kitchen with a plate in each hand. She set one in front of Morrison. “Eat. You need food.”

“Thanks, Millie.”

She brought Daphne’s plate next—two eggs with yolks perfect and golden, bacon crispy, toast buttered. “There you go, honey.”

“Thank you.”

Millie disappeared back into the kitchen.

Daphne picked up her fork. The eggs smelled perfect, and her stomach roared with a sort of vengeance that reminded her she hadn’t eaten since a very early morning protein bar somewhere in eastern Wyoming. She took a bite. Salt. Pepper. Butter. The yolk breaking rich and perfect.

Heaven.

Three stools down, Morrison piled his eggs on his toast and made it into a sandwich. Just like her father used to do.

Interesting.

And in less than two hours, she had to sit across a table from him and decide whether he was someone she could work with or someone who’d gotten Martha Lintz killed.

The diner door swung open, bringing a rush of cold air that carried the sharp smell of frost and dry leaves. Two people stumbled in—late teens or early twenties, moving with jerky coordination.

Oh no. Daphne’s instincts activated.

The male was skinny to the point of gaunt, pale skin slick with sweat despite the cold. His eyes too wide, pupils dilated so much they nearly swallowed the iris. Hands shaking.

The female was worse—wild-eyed and twitchy, her movements erratic. She kept touching her face, scratching at her arms hard enough to leave red welts.

They were high.

And she’d lay bets it was on Neurosync. She’d had her voice assistant read her all the files Caroline had sent on the syndicate and their activities. Apparently, this was their signature drug. A highly addictive stimulant that caused paranoia, aggression, bursts of superhuman strength, and psychotic episodes.

It had been infiltrating the city of Renegade for over a year now, becoming an epidemic.

These kids were flying high and coming down hard.

The male shoved his hand into his jacket pocket, fingers wrapping around something that made the fabric bulge.

Daphne’s hand drifted toward her weapon—concealed carry at the small of her back—but she didn’t draw. Not yet.

The male pulled out a gun.

Nine millimeter. Safety off. Grip unsteady. Finger already on the trigger.

The female pulled a knife from her pocket, the blade catching fluorescent light.