Julian knows it’s coming before the knock lands. Lily has been gone less than five minutes, and the garage outside his office has stopped moving with purpose. Tools pause mid-motion. Conversations stall, restart, stall again. Deacon has passed the glass twice already, and Julian is fairly sure the second time he wasn’t even pretending to have somewhere to go.
The paper is still on Julian’s desk. He folds it once, slides it beneath the folder and closes the folder instead of stacking it. Loose objects become weapons in the hands of bored men, and today feels like a day for weapons. The knock isn’t polite.
“Come in,” he says.
Deacon enters first, broad-shouldered, permanently sunburned, smelling like oil and citrus cleaner. He doesn’t bother closing the door. Mark follows, quieter, sharpe
