Shawn was waiting where Valdez said he would be.
Not inside the car.
Not leaning against it like before.
He stood a few steps from the curb, hands in his pockets, shoulders rigid, as if waiting had become a habit he could no longer break.
When he saw me, he didn’t move immediately.
But something in his posture tightened—subtle, controlled, like a system detecting an internal fault before it surfaced.
“You saw him,” he said.
Not a question.
I stopped a few feet away, the space between us suddenly feeling measured.
“Yes.”
A long pause stretched.
Then, quieter: “What did he tell you?”
The way he asked wasn’t casual.
It was controlled.
Too controlled.
Like he was holding something back with both hands.
I studied him—really studied him—for the first time since Valdez’s words had
