Page 71 of Omega's Fever

She studies my face, then nods slowly. “I know why you’re here.”

“Penelope—”

“And I can’t.” The words come out rushed, desperate. “We can’t testify. I’m sorry, but we can’t. Not with the baby.”

“I’m not asking you to testify,” I say carefully. “I wouldn’t. Not with...” I gesture at her stomach. “I just needed to see you were okay.”

It’s not a complete lie. I did want her to testify but I didn’t realize until I saw her how much I wanted to make sure she was okay too. But I can’t ask her now.

“Come home with me,” she says suddenly. “Talk to Damon.Maybe... maybe there’s another way. Something that doesn’t put us in danger but still helps.”

I should say no, but then I think about Milo and about how few options we have.

“Okay.”

The shift manager doesn’t seem to care that she clocks off early when I follow her out. I keep my eyes peeled as we move through back alleys but nothing seems off.

She’s got an apartment half a block up.

“Look who I found,” she says we enter.

Damon’s expression stays neutral. “Kellen.”

“Damon.”

The living room is sparse but comfortable: secondhand furniture, a few photos on the walls. One is of their wedding, Penelope radiant in a simple dress, Damon looking at her like she walks on water.

“Coffee?” Penelope asks, already moving to the kitchen.

“Sure.”

Damon and I sit across from each other at their small dining table. He’s studying me the way he used to study the crowd at the club—weighing up the threat.

“Heard you were in prison,” he says finally.

“Heard you got married.”

Something in his face softens. “Best thing I ever did.”

Penelope returns with three mugs, her hand brushing Damon’s shoulder as she passes. The casual intimacy of it makes my chest tight.

“I know what you want and we want to help,” Damon says, cutting straight to the heart of it. “But we can’t testify. Can’t put Penny and the baby at risk.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“Then what are you asking?”

Good question. What am I doing here, really?

“Information,” Penelope says quietly. “That’s what you need, right? Not testimony, just... information.”

Damon tenses. “Pen—”

“Just information,” she repeats, reaching for his hand. “Nothing official. Nothing that traces back to us.”

They have one of those silent conversations that established couples do, entire arguments in a glance. Finally, Damon sighs.

“Cobb’s records,” he says. “The ones that kept track of every... arrangement.”