He walked into Treeline during the afternoon lull like a man answering a summons.
Not the corner table version. Not the Elevation version or the Audi version or the VIP lounge version. This was the version that came when he'd been called — no composure armor, no operational register. Just a man in a dark sweater carrying something heavy behind his eyes who crossed my shop in four strides and stood on the other side of my counter and waited for me to speak first.
I made him wait. Wiped down the steam wand. Rinsed a portafilter. Let the silence build because silence was the one tool I had that he couldn't acquire or architect or buy through a holding company.
"Catherine Voss," I said.
"Doesn't exist."
