Hannah drove. McGee sat in the passenger seat, watching the city slide past the window.
"You know," Hannah said, eyes on the road, "last night was fun. I mean it. I haven't seen you laugh like that in — well, ever."
McGee smiled. "It was nice. Normal."
"So." Hannah glanced over. "Are you going to text him? Or call him?"
McGee looked at her phone. Tom's number was saved. She'd been staring at it all morning.
"I don't know," she said quietly.
"Why not? He left you his number, McGee. He wants to hear from you."
"I know. I just — it's been a while. Since I did this."
Hannah's voice went soft. "Then do it. You deserve this."
McGee didn't answer. She just held the phone, thumb hovering over the screen.
"Fine." She picked it up. "I'll text him."
"What are you going to say?"
"I don't know. Something short and sweet."
"How about just 'good morning'?" Hannah said. "Perfect. No obligation. No nothing."
McGee typed it. Stared at it. Deleted it. Typed it again.
"You're a big wuss," Hannah said, grinning.
"Shut up." McGee hit send.
*Good morning.*
She set the phone face-down on her lap like it might bite her.
Hannah laughed. "See? That wasn't so hard."
McGee was smiling. She couldn't help it.
Her phone buzzed almost immediately.
She picked it up. Read.
*Good morning. I apologize for last night. I'm usually not so forward. And you fell asleep so I didn't think — I thought it would be a little more creepy, me just sitting there waiting for you to wake up. That and I had work.*
She read it twice. Then a third time.
"Well?" Hannah said.
McGee showed her the phone. Hannah read it and whistled.
"He's a keeper," Hannah said. "Apologizing for being a gentleman. That's rare."
McGee was grinning so hard her face hurt. She typed back:
*No need to apologize. You were perfect.*
She hit send before she could second-guess it.
---
A decent apartment. Morning light through the blinds. A Guy Fawkes mask sat on the kitchen counter next to a coffee mug.
Fauwks — no mask, no suit, just a man in a t-shirt — sat on the couch with his phone. He read McGee's text. You were perfect.
He smiled. A real smile, not the painted one.
He typed: Well, maybe we can get coffee sometime.
He hit send. Set the phone down. Leaned back.
He was still smiling.
He picked up the remote and flipped on the TV.
The news. Every channel. The senator. The ballroom. Sixty-four dead.
He leaned back on the couch. Arms up on the backrest. Comfortable.
A reporter stood outside the stock exchange, the bronze bull behind her, crime tape fluttering in the wind. She said words like "tragedy" and "unthinkable" and "the worst mass killing in the city's history."
Fauwks watched. He didn't change expression.
He'd just texted the lead detective. Asked her for coffee. And now he was watching his handiwork on the morning news like it was a sitcom.
His phone buzzed. McGee's reply:
*I'd like that.*
He smiled wider.
Chapter 20