Noah was already moving before Lena finished the sentence, pulling his jacket from the back of a chair, his expression sliding into the controlled calm I now recognized as him bracing for something he didn't yet have language for.
"How long until she's here?" he asked.
"Twenty minutes. Maybe less. She called ahead, which she never does." Lena's eyes flicked to me, something careful in them, like she'd already guessed this concerned me more than it concerned her employer. "She sounded different, Mr. Sinclair. Not upset. Just… resolved."
"Bringing something," I repeated, still sitting on the studio floor amid the wreckage of my own recovered history, my hand still loosely tangled with Noah's. "What does that mean?"
"I don't know." Noah looked down at me, and for once I believed the uncer
