She never played her music when she drove because Rick always found something to say about it, and although it was inconvenient, moments like this made it worth it.

If it weren’t so dangerous to look at Rick directly, to encourage him, she’d steal a glance just to see how happy he was. It was enviable how radiant he looked when his voice was filling a room. Or her damn ear. His mouth would just erupt, his lips spreading like wings, his teeth emerging like a butterfly from chrysalis, a smile pouring forth, transfiguring his entire face. She wished she could smile like that.

Instead, she continued to stare ahead, concentrating on the unending sea of bumpers, the slowest stampede. Most people in the city weren’t even off yet, but traffic was thick.

“Did you hear me?” Rick finally asked, concerned.

“Yeah. It doesn’t have a smell.”

“No smell? I don’t believe that! You grew up there, you went to college there, and you worked there. There’s gotta be some smell you caught a few times. Cherry blossoms, black squirrels, motorcades, spilled craft beer, chili bowls, bodies in the Potomac. That’s gotta smell some type of way!”

“It doesn’t have a smell,” Tilly said flatly.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Well, that’s on you. I can’t tell you what to believe.” Christ, Tilly thought, he’s dragged me in.

“That’s true, but something I do believe is that this is our case. Like the one. You know how every partnership has that one case? Somerset and Mills got the seven deadly sins case. Riggs and Murtaugh got the South African diplomat case. Peretti and Appleton got fucking Nino.”

“You know all of those partnerships are fictional, right?”

“Yeah, but that’s not important. What’s important is that they agreed when they found the one that they were going all the way in. No mercy. Maximum tradecraft.”

“Sure. We’re not cops, though.”

“Damn, that’s a good point,” Rick said, defeated.

Tilly secretly rejoiced as traffic began to thin out. Escaping from I-20, she merged onto Lee Street, heading south. To her surprise, Rick didn’t say anything as they sped past the West End Mall. He usually had a story or five from his days as a janitor there, but he remained silent. I could get used to this, Tilly thought.

Eventually they reached the movie studio formerly known as Fort McPherson. A bespectacled black woman greeted them at the security post.

Tilly rolled down the window, wincing as hot air slithered into the car.

“License and affiliation,” the guard said gruffly.

Tilly extracted her license and FBI ID from her purse and handed them over. “FBI.”

The woman examined the cards closely then shoved them back into the car.

“First right, third left, second lot. You’ll know the building when you see it. Don’t get lost,” the guard warned, retreating back into the post.