I wasn't supposed to be here.
Marcos had called Treeline mid-morning — not Cole, Marcos — with the clipped efficiency of a man delivering operational information and expecting it to be received without questions. "Mr. Ashford needs you at the Palisade offices. Seventeenth Street. There's a car downstairs."
"He can come to the counter like a normal person."
"This isn't a cortado situation, Ms. Bridger."
The car was the Audi. Driver I didn't recognize — mid-thirties, quiet, the kind of man who looks straight ahead because looking anywhere else isn't in the job description. I sat in the back with cedar in the leather and the memory of the last time I'd been in this car — Cole driving, Wazee Street, the Jensen file, the kitchen light. That had been weeks ago. Before the hand kiss. Before Elevation. Before I'd crossed my own shop in the dark and put my mouth on his.
