“Kyle?” I asked, feeling the name as something strange in my mouth.
“Yes,” Marcus replied. “It’s in the kitchen.”
A faint metallic noise filtered through the call, followed by a sudden movement, like a chair being dragged across the floor.
“Did he see you come in?” I asked.
—Now we’re talking—.
The way he said it, without raising his voice, without rushing, reminded me of years ago, when I competed and measured every move.
—Marcus… —I began, but I didn’t really know what I was asking for.
Did he want me to stay calm?
To protect Ethan?
To not cross a line I couldn’t undo?
“Relax,” he said, almost in a whisper. “I’m thinking.”
That word, “thinking”, repeated itself in my head as a red light forced me to stop.
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