The phone felt hot against my ear, Isabella's voice finally cooling from full panic mode down to "nagging but affectionate." Apparently she'd stormed down to the police station like a rejected rom-com heroine, only to find out I was already gone. Her relief when I called was so thick it could've clogged arteries.
"I'm fine, really. Sterling's got everything handled," I said for maybe the tenth damn time. "Just focus on your evening. I'll see you Tuesday."
"You promise you're, okay? Peter, what you did was—"
"Necessary. And I'm fine. Promise."
After finally convincing her I hadn't been extradited to Guantanamo, I hung up and stared at my reflection. Evening light filtered through my window, making the shadows carve my face into something older. Or maybe I just wanted to believe that.
