COLE
Saturday. Diane’s schedule had us at a restaurant in Lincoln Park for a “casual couple sighting.” The reservation was under a fake name. The paparazzi had been tipped to the location. The table was by the window because window tables photographed well from the street.
Nova sat across from me reading the menu like it was a clinical report. She had ordered water. I had ordered a beer. We had exchanged eleven words since sitting down, most of them about the menu. The truce from the team lunch was holding, but holding was all it was doing. We weren’t fighting. We also weren’t talking. We were two people occupying the same table because a PR coordinator had told us to.
My phone rang.
I pulled it out. The screen said MOM. Sunday was our usual call. Saturday meant something was wrong, or
