I didn’t have an answer for that.

The silence stretched out between us and I watched her face cycle through expressions I didn’t have names for. Sloane loud was manageable. Sloane loud meant she was processing in real time, that the emotion was moving through her instead of getting stuck, that I could track where she was and meet her there. But Sloane quiet was worse. Sloane quiet meant she was doing math, and the math was not going to come out in my favor.

"The Eastside," she said finally. "That’s where you’ve been going. Every night you stay late at the office. Every time Dralun sends you somewhere and you come back smelling like fryer oil and old brick. You’ve been running rooftops in a district where people get killed, and you didn’t tell me."

"I’m telling you now."

"After."

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