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“On what?”
He leaned in, the lines around his eyes sharpening. “On who else starts asking about you. On what else they find.”
“You mean the FBI?”
He paused.
“No,” he said. “I mean the people watching the FBI.”
A chill rippled down my spine.
“I don’t understand,” I whispered.
He nodded. “You’re not supposed to.”
My stomach curled inward, tight and nauseous. I looked away, eyes blurring against the sterile cinderblock.
“You said my name got flagged?”
He nodded once. “System pinged you when the arrest was processed. Not normal procedure. Certain tags do that. I check them when they come in.”
“And you just happened to be nearby?”
“I don’t believe in coincidences,” he said.
“Then what do you believe in?”
His gaze held mine. “Justice. When I can find it.”
I exhaled, shaky and slow.
“You know Elias?” I asked.
“I do,” he said. “And if he hasn’t already found out you’re in here, he will. I spoke with one of his brothers.”
My heart kicked at the sound of his name.
“I don’t want him seeing me like this.”
“Then you picked the wrong night to climb a rooftop.”
I didn’t argue. Couldn’t.
Norton shifted, pulling something from his pocket. “I can’t get you out tonight. But I can make sure no one touches you while you’re here. That your paperwork doesn’t go missing. That no stories get rewritten on your behalf.”
He held out a napkin, folded into quarters.
“You need anything,” he said, “write it down. Pass it through the door. I’ll make sure it gets seen.”
I took the napkin with numb fingers.
“And Vivienne?” he added, turning to go.
I looked up.
“You didn’t kill your friend. But someone was there when it happened. That’s not random. That’s design.”
He stepped out, the door groaning shut behind him.