Sienna went back through the door with the paper sun.
Dean looked up from the chair beside room 14-C, both cups of coffee forgotten in his hands, and she crossed the corridor with her phone already out and Grant’s voicemail still ringing in her ears — Whitaker, Sinclair’s shopping our goalie, right now, behind her back — and she said, “Tell me everything you know about the Whitaker situation.”
He set the cups down on a windowsill.
“How much did you hear?”
“Enough.” She leaned against the wall across from him, arms folded, studying him. “Who’s he talking to?”
“Pittsburgh. Maybe Minnesota. It’s not confirmed, just—” Dean stopped. Blew a slow breath out. “Grant’s been making calls. Not through official channels. Conversations. The kind that don’t leave paper trails.”
“But they leave whi
