Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

REED

Some days, being Agent Sunday wasn't all it was cracked up to be.

Twenty-four short hours ago, I'd been chilling with my family, distracting myself from some unwanted time off work. And even though I was maybe the one human being in the universe who didn't seem to love spending time in tiny Little Pippin Hollow, I'd actually been enjoying myself.

Don't get me wrong, I loved my family always . Those fuckers were impossible not to love. We hadn't had the easiest childhood, what with my mom dying young and Dad's second wife bolting out of the Hollow when Emma was still a toddler, but we'd all moved on. I had my career now, Knox and Webb were busy running the orchard and being in love, Porter and Emma were grown and mature (mature being a relative term in Porter's case), and even sweet Hawklet had found himself a purpose and a boyfriend—one who'd calmly accepted my death stare and reminder (not that Jack needed it) to treat Hawk like the precious being he was .

All of that family goodness, I was totally here for.

But the other shit that came with a visit to the Hollow—the parade of nosy neighbors who remembered me from my motherless, paste-eating elementary school days, the parade of weird celebrations, the endless fucking apples—was usually a hard, hard pass.

This time around, it hadn't been so bad. I hadn't gotten itchy and started anticipating my departure five minutes after arriving. Maybe that was because the farmhouse rang with laughter. Maybe because folks in town finally seemed to understand that I had zero interest in meeting a nice boy or moving "home." But most likely, it was because, for the first time in fifteen years, I hadn't had an active assignment for the Division calling my attention back to Washington.

In fact, due to my forced administrative leave, the future of my job was tenuous at best—a situation so stressful that last night, I'd happily (well, happy-ish-ly) agreed to dress up like a Regency gentleman for the town's latest ridiculous event rather than sit at the farmhouse contemplating it.

But just as my breeches and I had been on our way out the door, my boss had contacted me for the first time in weeks.

"They're calling you back in, Sunday." Janissey had sounded more tired and stressed than usual, and in the background, I'd heard the familiar shuffling and zipping of someone trying to pack their life in a bag for an unknown period of time. "Got a new protectee for you. How much do you know about the Fromadgio crime organization?"

"Not much." I'd quickly shuffled through my mental files. I hadn't heard any specifics on the investigation, but I'd gotten bits and pieces. "The head of the family was under investigation, right? And shocked everyone by turning himself in a few months ago, saying he wanted to make a deal? I assume he's in witness protection now if he's sharing information that could make him a target?—"

"Yep. The US Marshals are handling that while the Department of Justice is hammering out details of his plea. The DOJ's planning to use some of Dante's information to seal up its case against Robert Evanovich, which is headed to trial in November."

"So what do you need me for?"

"A couple days ago, Dante told the DOJ he had credible information that someone—likely an Evanovich—is threatening his nephew. He's refusing to finish negotiations and sign the deal unless the kid is protected twenty-four seven until the trial. He is your protectee."

"Dante's nephew? You mean Nicky… what's his name?" I'd demanded. "Since when does the Division protect criminals? If he's agreed to cooperate, shouldn't the Marshals be handling that too?"

While our roles overlapped sometimes, the US Marshals Service was involved in all sorts of shit—apprehending fugitives, coordinating prisoner transport, and providing witness protection, just to name a few—while the Division was focused solely on the protection and relocation of innocent witnesses. It was one of many reasons I was glad I'd chosen to join the Division.

"Puh-lease. I don't think Nicky Costello's ever cooperated with anyone. I'm talking about Dante's other nephew, Chris."

I'd shaken my head. "Never heard of him."

"Well, no, you wouldn't. This one is supposedly innocent as a lamb. Of course, that's what Dante said about Nicky, too—he's refused to implicate Nicky in any of the shit the DOJ could have pinned on him—but both boys got the hell out of Dodge the second their uncle turned himself in, so I have my doubts."

So had I. Innocent often meant "not someone the government can make a case against" rather than truly blameless.

"You wanna tell me how Dante Fromadgio got this information? How is he in contact with his former associates while he's in protective custody?"

"This is what I like about you, Sunday," Janissey had approved. "You ask good questions. The answer is… who the fuck knows? You know how it goes. Coulda been one of Dante's lawyers, passing notes. Could be one of the Marshals protecting him has been getting a little lax—in which case, we'll never get the details. Personally, I think it's bullshit that they're still entertaining Dante's demands at all. The man's been stringing out this deal for six fucking months, and Evanovich's trial is coming up quick. I say, you sign on the dotted line or you serve your time, buddy. But the Powers that Be continually remind me I'm not paid to give my— fuck . Hang on, Sunday. Yes, Eloise? Five minutes. Tell them I'm coming… Then they can fucking wait for me, can't they? Give me five goddamn minutes . Sorry, Sunday, what was I saying?"

"What's going on over there?" I'd never heard him talk to his assistant that way.

He'd made a noise halfway between a groan and a sigh. "All hell's breaking loose, that's what. You're literally the only agent on the books in this office without an assignment, which is why the guys upstairs are willing to overlook your recent failure and reinstate you without a hearing. Must be your lucky day."

Janissey's words had struck a spot in my chest that had been sore for weeks. "I didn't fail . I know the guys upstairs think so, but I thought you understood I was trying to do the right thing?—"

"Yeah, I read the report," Janissey had said wearily. "But nobody gives a shit what you think is right, any more than they give a shit what I think. You went rogue and disobeyed a direct order. You wanna get up in front of the review board next month and explain that your conscience told you to do it, and blah blah? You think that'll fix this? Or do you wanna keep quiet, take the golden ticket you've been handed, and show everyone you're the excellent agent they thought you were?"

I'd fumed at this response… but silently. Because when it came down to it, I fucking lived for my job. I loved protecting people. Loved that I was always in motion—new people, new places, sometimes even new identities. It was the big, wild life I'd always wanted, and I loved the thrill of it. It was never, ever dull.

Janissey had snorted. "Smart man. I've got eleven— eleven —cases that have all gone hot at once, Sunday, and only nine agents who aren't on leave or already assigned. I asked the director to pull in folks from other agencies and got a giant ‘hell no,' so I've been forced to assign my own ass to fieldwork for the first time in ten years. This whole situation is my nightmare—I'm missing my daughter's ballet recital, my wife's probably going to withhold sex until the next millennium, and someone far above my pay grade has decided that Margot from Accounts is qualified to handle asset coordination while I'm out, which, yes, is likely to cause a series of epic and far-reaching clusterfucks I'm gonna have to un-fuck one by one later on, thanks for asking. But for you, this situation is a ticket to redemption. Your way back into the Division's good graces. So don't fuck it up. Do not listen to whatever sob story your protectee's gonna give you. Do not question your orders. Do not let him out of your sight. Do your job."

"I will." I'd clenched my teeth, burning with the need to prove myself. "Send me the files on the nephew. Arrest warrants, mug shots, whatever you've got."

Another snort. "Yeah, I've got none of that."

"What?" How was that possible?

"Kid looks squeaky clean. No arrests, no investigations, no unpaid parking tickets. Of course, when you're dealing with a family like that…"

"There's no such thing as innocent," I'd finished.

"You know it. I'll send you over what we have—a driver's license photo and some bank records. Margot'll be arranging your safe house. No time for new IDs or elaborate cover stories, and you shouldn't need them anyway since this is temporary and whatever happens to the guy after trial isn't up to us. Unfortunately, you're on this twenty-four seven for the duration. If you need support, call— Eloise, I'm right in the middle of… Yeah, I know. Jesus. One more minute. Sunday, you still there?"

"I'm here. I need some more information?—"

"Gotta go. Margot will send you safe house coordinates. I expect you to send her regular reports."

"Wait! Which agent briefed my protectee? I'll need to follow up with them and get the protectee's contact info so I can arrange a meet. I'm gonna need to arrange a plane ticket and a rental car?—"

"Not sure who Margot tasked with that. Hawley, maybe, but she's already in Texas on a different assignment to cover Shane, who's down with a broken leg." He made an impatient noise. "But you're not gonna need a plane ticket. Can't believe I forgot to mention where the kid's been staying. You're gonna love this?—"

I had not, in fact, loved hearing that the potential heir to a crime syndicate was hiding in the Hollow, right down the street from my family. Livid had been closer to accurate. But Janissey had stopped taking my calls once he left on his own assignment, and no one else seemed to have had a clue how this had happened… especially not Margot, who might or might not be amazing at Accounts but was comprehensively shitty in her temporary role of asset coordination.

"Uh-oh," a gentle voice said. "Muscle spasm?"

"What?" Startled out of my thoughts, I glanced over at the man I'd been assigned to protect.

I'd avoided looking at the guy since he'd climbed in, even though every time he fidgeted in his seat, a burst of cologne—subtle, musky vanilla weirdly overlaid with the strong scent of lime soda—floated across the car.

Christ, he was a tiny thing. Maybe five seven, a hundred and twenty pounds, all slender muscles beneath an oversized yellow-and-blue-striped sweater, with fine-boned features and big, dark eyes poorly concealed by enormous, thick-rimmed glasses.

I had to admit, his getup did the job of making Dante's nephew look innocent as fuck, but if he was trying to make himself ugly or unnoticeable, it was working about as well as Clark Kent slapping on a pair of nerdy Ray-Bans and trying to pretend he wasn't the hottest thing in Metropolis. Whoever had approved his "disguise" should be fired immediately. The man didn't just look sweet; he looked downright edible . Any human with even the slightest potential attraction to adorably goofy men would be drawn to him like a bee to honey.

"Do you, you know, rub it?" The man slow-blinked at me with doe eyes that would put Bambi to shame.

Unfortunately, I had more than a potential attraction to men like him. Sweet, pretty twinks were my catnip. Even knowing this was most likely all an act—a part of the legend that went along with whatever cover the man had been living under in my hometown—it was having an effect on me.

"What?" I asked again, trying to remember what the fuck he'd been saying.

"Oh, um, it's just that y-you were clenching your jaw a second ago. You looked a little bit… disgruntled? So I figured maybe you were having a muscle spasm. I don't get them myself. I'm not a clenchy sort of person, even though technically I'm a Virgo, and Virgos are supposed to be very meticulous. Sometimes I wish I could ask my mom if I'm really a laid-back Libra who was born a couple weeks early, but she died, so I guess it'll remain a mystery."

" What ?" I spoke three languages fluently, but none of them were… whatever nonsense he was speaking.

"My nonna, though, she was a slave to the spasms," he continued, undaunted. "Capricorn through and through. And when her jaw got tight, she did this thing like… Here, it's better if I show you." He turned toward me, opened his jaw, and ran his finger back and forth along the inside of his mouth until his finger was spit-shiny and his cheek bulged obscenely. " Mmmnnnghkuh ?"

I made a garbled, high-pitched noise of my own.

His face crumpled with sympathy. "Aw. You poor thing. It sounds so painful. Let me do it for you. Sometimes it's better when someone else rubs it." He leaned toward me with one hand outstretched.

"No!" I said firmly, leaning away so abruptly my head almost smacked the window. "I'm… I'm fine."

I had been fine until that unexpectedly erotic display.

I clenched my hands on the steering wheel. He's your protectee, Sunday. The nephew of a criminal mastermind. Get it together.

"Sorry! Sorry. I'm sorry." Chris—the protectee —fluttered his hands, then dropped them to the seat and trapped them under his thighs. "One thing to know about me is that I tend to talk a lot when I'm nervous, and this whole situation is like… whoa . Unexpected, you know?"

"Yeah," I gritted out. "I know."

"But not unwelcome! I'm actually really excited that you, um, picked me up. It was perfect timing. Like fate, maybe, if you believe in that kind of thing." He smiled warmly and adjusted his glasses. "I… oh! Hey, this is the lane for the highway. You might want to move over if?—"

"I know where I'm going," I assured him.

"Oh." He paused, considered, and nodded. "Okay."

He went quiet for a moment, and the car rang with beautiful silence. But we hadn't gotten more than two exits down the highway when his toes began tapping the floor mats, and he burst out, "Um, I figure you probably don't want me calling you Mr. Sunday while we're, uh… you know. So we should exchange first names. Unless you'd rather that I called you something else? Like… like… sir ? Because I could do that." His forehead puckered. "Probably."

"Was there an actual question in there?" I demanded.

He sighed. "Who am I kidding? I could totally sir you, if you really wanted me to. I'm an agreeable person by nature, and I'm, ah, pretty motivated here." He laughed nervously, and his hands made a desperate bid for freedom, emerging to flit around some more as though the flapping powered some internal engine that forced his words out. "N-not that I'm making assumptions about what you might want! Gosh, no. We don't know each other yet, and if you're not ready to get that intimate, that would be fine. Better , even. For me. To take it slow. But… but… I think I'd feel more comfortable with this whole thing if I knew your first name."

It took a minute for my brain to sift through the veritable haystack of speech and nervous gestures, and when I did, I looked at him in disbelief. "Hold up. No one told you my name? You know nothing about me at all?"

"Uh." Another way-too-adorable frown. "N-no? Someone might have mentioned it, but…" He shook his head. "I think I'd have remembered."

"God." I stretched my neck from side to side, fighting annoyance at Janissey, at Margot, at the Division in general and this assignment in particular.

Standard operating procedure for a protective detail like this one involved a shit ton of briefings, often beginning weeks in advance. Briefings for the agents, briefings for the protectees, briefings about the situation that put the protectee in danger, and briefings about how we'd remove them from the threat. For all that the Division claimed that operating outside of the government's alphabet soup bureaucracy gave us a unique flexibility other agencies didn't have, I'd swear nothing got Janissey harder than a team Zoom where we could "deep dive" and "pivot" and "leverage our assets" and "circle back" to whatever or whoever needed circling.

The upside of this was that long before the protectee and I were in the same zip code, I usually had a huge-ass background file that included everything from their dental records to their Hinge profiles, and the protectee knew about me, too—at least the parts I needed them to know, like my qualifications and my freaking name.

But in the clusterfuck I was now assigned to, my protectee didn't have a file. He didn't have a legal address in the Hollow. He didn't even have a phone number on record. In fact, the only way I'd managed to find my protectee so quickly was thanks to a chance conversation with my little brother last night. Hawk had let slip that "Chris" who moved to town "a few months ago" was some kind of weapons expert and worked at the Bugle. This had led me to make a few inquiries of Ernie York, the town mayor and the Bugle's owner, who confirmed that Chris was "short and wiry and strong as fuck" and "frankly, a little scary." One look at a picture from the Bugle's staff barbecue last summer on Ernie's phone had shown me the very man from the driver's license photo Janissey had sent over, and I was sure I had the right person.

I glanced at the passenger's seat. So far, the guy seemed about as scary as Webb's golden retriever puppy, but as the man himself had said—and it might have been the only sensible thing he had said—we didn't know each other. Beneath the cute-and-innocent schtick he seemed determined to cling to, he was still a Fromadgio. Still dangerous.

"Reed," I said belatedly. "You should call me Reed."

"Reed," he repeated. Then again, like he was tasting the word on his tongue, " Reed . I like it. It's not unusual, but not common either. If someone says, ‘Hey, Reed,' I bet you know they mean you." He sighed a little. "So… what's your middle name?"

I glanced at him again. His act was solid, I'd give him that much. If I didn't know better, I might think the man actually spoke every thought in his brain out loud.

"Reed is my middle name," I admitted gruffly. "Nobody calls me by my first name."

"Oh. That's handy. I don't have a middle name, which is too bad because I'd totally go by that. Chris is so common." He pushed those ridiculous glasses up his nose. " So you're the third Sunday, right? The one who's an accountant for a Washington think tank?"

Annoyed as I was at this reminder that he knew my family, I still found myself laughing a bit at his joke as I took the exit for Route 91. "Yep. That's me, alright."

I'd invented the "think tank" job back when the Division recruited me after college, before I'd learned how impossible it was to keep the details straight when you tried to keep a secret like that for any length of time. These days, I didn't spend much time with my family, which sucked on the one hand because I felt more disconnected from them as the years passed, but was also ideal since it kept the danger of my work life away from them and drastically reduced the number of lies I needed to keep track of.

They were so far from knowing who I really was or what I really did, my brother Porter actually joked that I was a "secret-agent super-spy" because he knew no one would believe it.

"Um, Reed?" Chris piped up, because two seconds of silence was apparently two seconds too long. "I don't mean to be a nag, but how far are we going? Because this highway goes to Connecticut." His laughter sounded forced. "Your place isn't all the way in Connecticut, is it?"

"Of course not." I flipped on my blinker. "It's in Massachusetts."

A glance at the rearview mirror showed a car with New Jersey plates following us off the exit. Had they been following us long? Damn it . I wasn't sure.

"Massachusetts," he repeated faintly. "Oh. Okay. Yeah. That's…" He fumbled a tin from the pocket of his jeans and pushed it in my direction. "Uh… mint?"

"No." The New Jersey car sped up, too, keeping pace, so I switched lanes, pulling around a lumber truck that was having a hard time chugging up one of the hills south of town. I unceremoniously pushed the tin of mints away and pushed the gas pedal to the floor. "Fucking fuck ."

"Fresh breath means you won't use fresh language, Nonna used to say." His voice had gone helium-high in the last two minutes. "N-not that I'm complaining about your language! Not at all. I use fresh language, too! All the… all the hecking time. And frankly, many of my nonna's sayings weren't entirely accurate. L-like, she said the louder you sneeze, the longer you'll live. But there was this episode of John Ruffian where John is in a ghost town and the bad guys are looking for him, and one loud sneeze would've given him away?—"

From the corner of my eye, I saw his hands flapping again, fast as hummingbird wings.

"And Nonna always said to carry cash in your shoe for emergencies, but that seems really uncomfortable and potentially unhygienic, especially if you were to, say, spill soda all over yourself because you were temporarily but unavoidably distracted?—"

"Chris," I began calmly. "Take a deep breath and stay calm."

His voice rose in speed and pitch like he was stuck in fast-forward. "And she also used to say," he went on, "you can't fight gravity, sweetheart. Which I guess is true in a way, but, um, the existence of the aviation industry would suggest that sometimes you can cooperate with it for a little while, so?—"

"Chris," I said in the firm voice that had calmed dozens of protectees over the years. " Chill ."

"I'm chill! I'm on an adventure with Reed Sunday, and we're going to Massachusetts! I've never been chiller in my life !" Chris pressed a hand to his stomach. "Is it possible to be allergic to wild oats, do you know?"

"Easy now. Remember what I told you before?" I asked in the same soothing tone my dad always used to calm his livestock. "I've got this. I'm taking care of you. You're gonna be fine."

"I remember you saying that, Reed. I do. But I also remembered that I didn't actually tell Van I was leaving, and he might worry if I don't come back, and you're driving like we're in a high-speed chase, and I can't help but notice that you're talking to me the way Webb talks to Stella at milking time."

Despite the seriousness of the situation, I felt my lips twitch up in a smile before I restrained it. The way his panic was edging into annoyance, making him look like an angry, near-sighted kitten, was not adorable, damn it.

Once we passed the lumber truck, I pulled back into the right lane, and the suspicious car sped past harmlessly.

"See that?" I pointed toward the taillights of the New Jersey car. "Not a high-speed chase at all. They're gone."

"They?" His eyes widened. "Who's they ?"

"The car I thought was tailing us. False alarm."

"You thought…" Chris exhaled a breath that sounded more like a whistle. "Reed, I'm sure you've realized I'm new to this sort of thing, and I admit that I should have asked more questions before getting in the car, but I didn't expect tonight to involve you performing an impromptu audition for some Green Mountains revival of The Fast and the Furious ."

"Breathe," I suggested again.

His nose curled up like a grumpy bunny's. "I am breathing. I'm definitely breathing. And I know that because if I weren't breathing, I'd be unconscious, and if I were unconscious, I wouldn't be so d-dang nervous."

"We'll be there soon," I lied. By my estimation, it was at least an hour to the coordinates Margot had sent. "I know this might seem scary, but you're doing great. And you might be a newbie, but I'm not."

He sank down in his seat and pushed up his glasses. "Yeah, it's obvious that you're, um…" He swallowed. "Way more experienced than I am at this sort of thing."

I couldn't lie, his words made me puff up a little bit. "Yup. I've taken care of dozens of men and women like you over the years." I did some quick mental math. "Maybe even ten dozen. You're in good hands."

"You…" He gave me a look of mingled intrigue and horror. "You've done this with over a hundred people?" He shot me a look I couldn't read. "And you're, what, forty?"

I scowled. "Thirty-five." I'd started young, and I'd had a very successful career… until recently. "I'm good at what I do."

He squirmed a little. "Kind of a, um, strange thing for you to brag about, especially since you're, like, with me, but okay."

"I'm not bragging, I'm reassuring you." I frowned. "I'm trying to say, none of those people knew what they were doing either, and not a single one was killed or even injured while they were with me. They all—well, almost all—shook my hand and thanked me when we said goodbye, okay?"

He stared at me, mouth open and lip curled. " Killed ?" His eyes flared wide. "Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Everyone you've done this with was a newbie ?" he whispered. "All hundred twenty of them?"

"Well… yeah." I shrugged. I didn't understand where his surprise was coming from. Most people went their wh ole lives without going into protective custody, let alone more than once. But maybe things were different when you were born into a crime family. "I'd argue that if I do my job right, nobody has to go through this more than once."

" Go through it ?" He wrinkled his nose further, and his glasses slid down. "Not trying to be critical here, Reed, but you are really not selling this experience."

The man's confusion was strangely appealing, just like his fidgeting and his cologne and his glasses and his stammering… and not only were none of those things I had ever found attractive before, but the last thing I needed was to be distracted by a protectee—a Fromadgio protectee—less than twenty-four hours after being reinstated to the job I'd nearly lost a couple of months ago.

What the hell was wrong with me today?

Eyes firmly on the road, I took another deep breath and said, "It's perfectly normal to be nervous, Chris. But if you do what I say, everything will be fine. The problem here is that you weren't briefed on the procedure." When he looked confused, I added, "You don't know what to expect."

"That obvious, huh?" He groaned and put his hands over his face. When he spoke again, his words were muffled. "You're not wrong, though. And I'm sure books and movies have given me some unrealistic ideas about, um, how it all works?—"

"Don't get me started," I scoffed. The unrealistic portrayals of protectors on television were a pet peeve of mine. "But most people are in the same boat, and it's not your fault. Ideally, someone should have sat you down and explained all this to you. Answered your questions."

"I guess. It's not like I could ask anyone in my life about it, though. My uncle would rather die. My parents are gone. I don't have a lot of c-close friends, really. And Mrs. Rose—that's our next-door neighbor who used to babysit me—she's really sweet, but everything she knows comes from novels. So, you know, I've asked around, a little bit, and researched it on the internet, as you do, but some of the information I found made me even more nervous?—"

My jaw dropped. He'd researched this on the internet? No. He couldn't possibly have been that foolish.

"Hold up." I pulled his hand down so I could see his face. "You asked around ? You did internet research ?" I envisioned him talking to people in town about me and googling "Agent Sunday, Division, witness protection." Anyone who'd overheard him, who'd checked his search history, could potentially threaten my family. "You're joking, right?"

"No. Of course not." Chris seemed confused by my anger… which only made my temper rise. "I mean, I used a private browser and everything." He dug into his pocket and pulled out a phone as if to demonstrate. "See, I—ohmigosh, Reed, could you please watch the road?"

"You brought a phone ?" I roared. "A traceable, trackable phone? Are you insane?"

I tried to calm myself. It wasn't the protectee's fault that he hadn't been thoroughly briefed. It was at least partially my fault because I'd assumed he had, and I should have verified before he climbed into my car. But holy shit, the one thing movies and books got right was that you had to leave all traces of your old life behind when you went into protective custody, especially your goddamn phone.

Did the man have no concept of self-preservation? Did he not understand that he could, at this very moment, be tipping off the people who wanted to hurt him in order to get at his uncle? Or was he a spoiled mafia heir who thought his sweet-and-innocent act meant the rules didn't apply to him ?

"Give me your phone," I demanded. "Hand it over."

"N-no." Eyes round, he pulled back, clutching his phone protectively. "No, thank you. You're scaring me a little right now, Reed, and I think I'd rather?—"

I didn't care what he'd rather . Not when he was endangering both of us. Opening my window, I reached over and grabbed the phone from his hand, then tossed it out onto the pavement. With any luck, the lumber truck would be along shortly to finish the job.

I immediately felt better. Calmer.

Chris did not.

"Hey!" He lunged like he was trying to follow his phone out the window, and it took me a few seconds to wrestle him back onto his own side while maintaining control of the vehicle and definitely not noticing the vanilla-lime scent of him.

He sat upright in his seat, red-faced and breathing hard, and pushed up the glasses he'd nearly lost in the scuffle.

He folded his arms over his chest and glared at me, hair wild and cheeks red. "What in the hecking heck balls was that? Turn around right now and get that back."

I glanced sideways, tightened my grip on the wheel, and said as firmly as possible, "No."

"Look, Reed, I like you." He paused like he was rethinking that statement. "I liked the idea of you, at least. You've got nice eyes, a-and nice shoulders, and… flannel. I thought you had a John Ruffian vibe?—"

"Who the fuck is John Ruffian?"

He gaped at me like this was the most mind-blowing thing I'd said yet. "You've never heard of John Ruffian: Pretender ?"

"That's… a show?" I guessed. "No. I don't watch television." I didn't ha ve time.

"Is it a show? Pfft. It's not a show, it's the show. The best show in the history of… of… shows. It's about a guy who—" He shook his head angrily. "No, you know what? Never mind. You don't deserve to know. Because I was wrong. You're nothing like John Ruffian. John Ruffian would never have thrown away the phone my uncle bought me right before I left for Vermont. It was special to me." His lip quivered, but he firmed it and added in what I could only imagine was an impression of the grandmother he kept mentioning, "I don't like your attitude, mister."

"My attitude?" I shot back. "Jesus Christ, I'm trying to help you here?—"

He lifted his chin. "Well, I don't want your help . Not anymore. My pants are damp, you're a terrible driver, and I don't like this adventure. I… I would like you to take me home now." He folded his arms over his chest, but after a moment, like he couldn't help himself, he added a small, polite "Please."

" Please ," I scoffed. His prim manners and big, solemn eyes were making me feel like a villain when I was only doing my job.

But it didn't matter what the protectee wanted as long as I was doing my job and keeping them safe. It was a lesson I'd nearly forgotten back in August, but I wouldn't forget again.

I hardened my voice. "You won't be going home, Chris. Not until I say. This ride goes one way, and it doesn't stop until we get there. Understand?"

His eyes were so comically wide they took up half his face, and guilt twisted my gut. But learning to follow my lead might be the thing that saved his life eventually, so I didn't back down .

"Sit still and stop distracting me, and let's get this over with," I muttered. "Okay?"

He huffed and curled his arms tightly around himself, leaning against the passenger door, but he kept his mouth shut for once. So I turned up the radio and told myself I didn't miss his babbling as the car rolled through the night.

But if I'd known the kind of trouble I'd be in once we got to the safe house, I might have noticed that he hadn't actually agreed with me.