“I suppose I did.”

A loud rattle echoes down the tunnel as the train approaches. We talk as it chugs into the station and creaks to a stop. Once we board and the doors close, I ask more questions and he answers, and as we travel downtown I begin to see the watercolor of Flynn Parker filling in. Colors, shapes, details. I start to understand the picture of who he is.

On the outside, he’s the math nerd. The smarty pants. The tall guy with glasses who aced all his classes, can recite pi to a hundred digits, and has taught himself Japanese.

But he’s more than that.

His drive isn’t about numbers or circuit breakers. His drive is passion. The kind that insists on being heard, like a drumbeat. It’s a flame that can’t be extinguished.

He tips his chin toward me. “What about you and writing? Did you have a nose for news at a young age?”

“When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a fashion designer.”

“Why aren’t you, then?” His tone is completely earnest, and curious as well.

The answer is easy. “I don’t think I have the vision for it.”

He frowns. “Don’t say that.”

I hold up a hand and shake that thought away. “No, it’s okay. I’m not putting myself down. I’m really okay with it. I have no regrets. I’d much rather play around with somebody else’s pattern. It’s what I thought I wanted to do, but it wasn’t what I actually wanted to do, even though I do love making outfits.”

“But you don’t have the passion for it as a career?”

“Exactly. But being a reporter absolutely feeds something I love.”

He leans closer, his palms on his thighs, his eyes holding mine. “What’s that, Sabrina?”

I love that he’s asking me these questions. I adore that he’s curious. Because that’s what I’m enamored of.

“I love curiosity,” I answer. “I love understanding things. I desperately want to understand people, what makes them tick. That’s why I do what I do.”

“Desperation can be a good thing. We should love our careers desperately if we’re going to give so much to them.”

“Desperate love,” I repeat, liking the sound of that. “Yes, we should love desperately. Especially work, since it’s often more reliable than the romantic kind.”

He laughs lightly, one of those you’re preaching to the choir laughs, and I wonder if he’s had the shit kicked out of him by love too. If perhaps he’s so passionate about work because, like me, he’s been on the receiving end of a steel-toed boot. Maybe someday I’ll ask, but it doesn’t feel like it should be an interview question.

“So, you do love what you do?” he asks.

“I do, Inspector Poirot.”

“And you also love understanding new things?”

“I do.”

A slow grin forms, and he strokes an imaginary mustache. “You’ll like where I’m taking you, then.”

“The abandoned subway station, you mean? I read that we can see it on the train at the turnaround. You can catch a glimpse as the train loops around before it heads back uptown.”