He rises. His footsteps are whisper quiet against the floor. At the door, he pauses. I feel him looking back at me, but I can’t tear my gaze away from the empty plate of food on the coffee table. I can’t focus. I can hardly breathe.
Declan is a spy. I’m going to be a spy. And I have to end it between us.
Convincingly.
Or he dies.
Maybe I’m still in the hospital with that brain clot, hallucinating everything.
“I’ll give you some time to get it sorted. Don’t take long, though. Best to rip off the Band-Aid quickly. I’ll be in touch once it’s done. And remember, we never spoke. Don’t try to get creative and tell him about this conversation in some silly way like writing him a note. I’ll know if you do.”
Feeling sick, I say, “How would you know?”
“The same way I know the name of the boy
