It’s not even a stolen car, for once. It belongs to Warner, or to a company owned by someone in her employ. I assume she’s low-jacked it so she can track my movements. That’s why I’ve parked it a couple of blocks away. Unfortunately, I can’t ditch the phone. Warner might call. But yesterday, it seemed like she didn’t often monitor the feed from the tracking apps. She had me dragged me into that diner without even checking where Francis had been. I figure my odds are good.

I shouldn’t be here. I should be halfway to Mexico. But it’s possible that Thistle doesn’t want to arrest me. She might just need some information about one of my old cases. And if so, I can’t pass up the chance to see her in real life, not just in a fantasy.

The dreams don’t come every night, but they’re not getting any less frequent. Sometimes it’s a good dream, where Thistle and I live together like an ordinary couple, with a house and a dog and occasionally even kids. Other times it’s a nightmare, where I hurt her.

In the good dreams, I’m not me. I’m some other guy, with a regular job and normal hobbies. Even my subconscious knows that Thistle couldn’t love a person like me.

I scurry past some cafes and hotels and offices, head bowed against the cold like I’m at the north pole. Soon I reach the front entrance of the field office. There’s a new receptionist behind the desk—an older guy with a heavy brow who watches me with great suspicion as I come in.

‘I’m here to see Agent Reese Thistle,’ I say.

His gaze flicks down to my missing thumb. That often happens. It’s not as though you count the fingers of everyone you meet, but somehow people notice.

‘She’s expecting me,’ I add.

The guy grunts and picks up the phone. I strain to hear Thistle’s voice as she tells him to let me in.

He buzzes me through the security door. Thistle doesn’t come down to meet me. Probably a good sign. But I still take the stairs rather than the elevator, just in case this is some kind of trap—the cops could shut it down between floors, literally boxing me in.

The Die Hard escape method only works in movies, in case you were wondering. The trapdoor in the ceiling of an elevator car is always padlocked closed from above.

Walking along the grey corridor towards Thistle’s cubicle, I pass the director’s office. There’s a new name on the door. The soft muttering of a female voice inside.