Remy
The phone rang at 6:02 a.m., slicing clean through the steam of my shower and the quiet that lives before the shop wakes. I almost never get calls that early unless something is on fire—literal or otherwise. I grabbed the towel, hit accept, and said her name before it could turn into a question.
“Holland?”
A breath. Not the calm, measured one she’s been practicing, but the ragged kind you use when your body is staging a revolt. “I think… the Chinese got me,” she said, voice hoarse and small. “I’m so sorry for calling. I’ve been up since like… three? My stomach is—” She swallowed and I could hear the swallow go wrong. “I’m not going to make it to work.”
Worry landed in my chest like a dropped wrench. Pierce went alert—ears-up, nose-forward alert—and then sat back, watchful, waiting
