Page 56 of Omega's Fever

“Humor me.”

He takes the turn without further argument. The silver sedan continues straight. I relax a fraction, but I keep watching.

Long shadows stretch across the street, perfect for concealment. Every doorway could hide a watcher. Every window could frame a scope.

“Right at the next light,” I say.

Milo complies, taking us on a circuitous route that adds ten minutes to the drive.

Whatever his boss said to him has lit a fire I can smell in his scent. His vanilla is sharpened with determination and something else. Fear, maybe. Or anger.

By the time we pull into his building’s garage, I’ve picked up six potential tails and dismissed them all. The itch between my shoulder blades hasn’t gone away though. All it means is that I didn’t spot them.

“Clear,” I tell him as he parks.

He nods once, gathering his briefcase as he exits the car.

The mirrors in the elevator up to his apartment show our reflection—him in his expensive suit looking like he stepped out of a law firm catalog, me looking exactly like the thing I am: his publicly allocated defendant.

The hallway to his apartment stretches empty, but I make him wait while I check it anyway. No one in sight. No unfamiliar scents.

“It’s fine,” Milo says, but he waits for my nod before approaching his door.

Inside, I do my circuit while he drops his briefcase on the dining table with more force than necessary. Windows first. The curtains hang exactly as I left them this morning. No fresh marks on the fire escape. Everything is exactly as we left it.

He lets me do it. He sits at the dining table, already pulling files from his briefcase.

“I’ll make dinner,” I offer, needing something to do while he processes whatever’s eating at him.

He doesn’t respond. By the time I’ve got water boiling for pasta, he’s surrounded himself with a fortress of legal pads and case documents.

I know better than to interrupt. In prison, you learn to read the difference between quiet and silence. This is silence.

The kitchen in his apartment is a thing of beauty. It’s perfectly equipped and high-end. I’m used to kitchenettes with a single slightly dull chopping knife and chipped plates. Milo’s knives are sharp enough to shave with and nothing he owns is chipped.

I dice onions and garlic, letting the rhythm settle my nervesabout Cobb. Cooking was one of the few things I learned young that wasn’t about survival. My third foster mother taught me. “A man who can cook will never go hungry,” she’d said. She’d shown me how to stretch cheap ingredients into something delicious. I’d gotten out of the habit of cooking in the last years at the Pit, but I’m reminded of it now.

There’s something soothing about taking the time to create something that tastes delicious and nourishes at the same time.

The scent of garlic and olive oil fills the apartment, competing with the vanilla sweetness of Milo’s suppressant-dampened pheromones.

I can smell the chemical tang of the suppressions underneath his natural scent. I wish he’d stop taking them but that’s not my decision to make.

While the sauce simmers, I drift toward the wall I’ve been curious about since I got here. His diplomas and certificates hang in perfectly aligned frames: Harvard Law, summa cum laude. Law Review editor. Debate champion. Award after award, achievement after achievement. The photos tell the same story—Milo in graduation robes surrounded by beaming professors, Milo accepting some trophy, Milo shaking hands with people who look important.

He has worked hard to be where he is.

Only one photo shows him as a child. He’s tiny, maybe four or five, standing between an older couple. The woman has his eyes, the same sharp intelligence softened by genuine warmth. The man’s hand rests on Milo’s shoulder with easy affection. They look at him like he hung the moon.

“My parents,” Milo says behind me. I didn’t hear him move. “Before the accident.”

I turn carefully, gauging his mood. Somehow, he looks even more tired than usual.”

“When did it happen?”

“I was four.” He moves past me to adjust a frame that doesn’t need adjusting. “My uncle took me in. Made sure I had every opportunity to succeed.”

The way he says it doesn’t sound like gratitude. I think of this morning’s phone call, the way his whole body had changed when he saw who was calling.