More fodder for the rumor mill. “Too bad about your phone.”

“Yah.” She grinned. “Words just won’t do him justice.”

“You’re too hard on the Empire dude.”

“Who, Mr. Bland?” She was sure I was kidding.

“I mean, at least he looked, y’know . . .” I felt my cheeks heating up. “Nice?”

Her guffaw broke out in a gust. “Who cares about nice?”

“Well, I . . .”

She saw me at a loss. “Hey, don’t mind me. It’s good you noticed anyone at all, right?”

What did she mean? “I guess.”

Spunk appeared in the doorway and scanned the hallway like a guard dog making sure no one snuck back in. Then he gave Jake a reassuring nudge and sauntered off, jiggling his eyebrows at me as he went by, his limp nearly invisible. At least someone had enjoyed themselves this afternoon. Most of the Joes drifted after him.

Jake took in the remains: two older lads, Grace, and me. “Waiting to see the boss?”

“I was just hanging.” Grace nudged my arm and sloped off. “See ya later.”

Jake eyed the two lads, who wore solemn faces and hands clasped in front of them.

“We’d . . . uh . . . like to discuss . . . um . . . the funeral arrangements?”

“Yes. Good. We’ll go to the loft, bring him a plan once we’ve worked out the details.” Once they’d nodded and left, Jake turned to me. “Is it important?”

I shrugged, then reached into my belly pack and dangled the bracelet briefly in front of him. “Only, Spunk said I should . . .”

His eyes widened. “Huh. Let me check.”

I expected to be sent away so Rousseau could grab a breather. But Jake was soon back.

“Boss’ll be with you in a moment. He’s got some notes to get down.”

“I bet he does, after all that.” But if I was hoping for some info tidbits or special insights from my tier-mate, I was disappointed. He only smiled at me wearily.

“Don’t keep him too long.”

“In and out,” I promised, hoping that would be the case.

“Good.” Jake turned to mope away up the corridor, leaving the door open behind him.

The second he left me alone in the long, echoing hallway, my nerves flared up again. I shoved the sparkler back in my wallet, fingers brushing the plastic edges of other, more secret contents. No one, ever, asked you to turn out the insides of your gut wallet. It was the last private place—as Rubio called it, the sanctum sanctorum, the key to keeping one’s sanity in an oh-so-public environment. But what if Rousseau decided to make an exception?