The longer she strung him along the more hilarious she’d find the payoff.

She was twisted like that.

Unpredictable, raw, electric, alive.

It made her a new kind of danger and a different kind of challenge, which was why he was still standing here, watching that damn door, ignoring the Klaxon sounding through his head. That, and he wanted to know what in this small town possibly mattered enough for her to risk betraying her brother’s trust when trust was what they needed most to keep each other alive.

He stole another glance at the time.

The persistent nagging grew stronger.

This whole thing would have been so much easier if he could just talk with her, but that was out of the question and also non-negotiable. He’d observed enough targets through the crosshairs to know that even she, manipulative, emotional chameleon that she was, wasn’t a good enough actress to prevent subconscious body language from telegraphing the presence of an armed companion.

For him to be of any value, she couldn’t know.

That had been fine enough in concept when he’d first set out in Houston.

In practicality, he felt like a voyeuristic creep.

That surprised him—a lifetime spent peering into people’s lives, and now he was uncomfortable? But he should have seen it coming. Nobody, guilty or innocent, took kindly to learning they’d been spied upon, and hunting someone he cared about to protect her when she didn’t believe she needed protecting was a far cry from picking pockets, as he’d done as a kid on the streets from Calamar to Cartagena, or running skip traces for pocket money after a promise made to the father he’d never met resulted in a new life in the United States, or tracking down those outside as he followed that trailhead into the world’s underbelly to where he observed the most intimate moments through the crosshairs.

The last thing he wanted was for her to feel repulsed by him.

That’s what this would earn him if she knew.

So, no. And also, no.

Murmurs and footsteps reverberated in the solemn acoustics. Parishioners came and went, lighting candles, counting rosary beads, whispering prayers.

It’d been two hours and forty minutes now.

The mairie would close soon.

The next train departed shortly after that.

Even if she walked out now—assuming she hadn’t already slipped out the back—he no longer had enough time to find out what she’d been after.

He’d reached the self-imposed cutoff.

He would return to the station and look for her suitcase.

Either it’d be there or it wouldn’t, and then he’d know.

Reluctance held him at the window, refused to let him go.

To leave now was to acknowledge the possibility she’d absconded.

Every minute he delayed was a minute he didn’t have to face that truth.