Giselle shrugged and ran a fingernail along a scratch on the table. “I didn’t exactly steal it. I just borrowed it with extreme prejudice.”

“Hilarious. You know, I could have used that stone on some jobs. I didn’t always have a Flasher to open doors for me. You made my life a lot harder.”

“And for that, I apologize,” she said. “But look at it from my point of view. Having it made my life easier.”

“That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

“Making you feel better didn’t really cross my mind at the time.”

He sighed. “Why did you even need it? You could cloud some slob’s mind and walk into anywhere you wanted.”

“True. But what if there was nobody around? It sped things up.”

“Oh well, as long as it meant you had more time for scrapbooking or whatever it is you do for fun these days, I guess it’s all right.”

Giselle crossed her legs and looked at Coop. “So, word is you did a little time recently. I’m sorry to hear that.”

Coop picked up a pencil from the table and flipped it into the air, catching it as it came down. “Yeah. A little time.”

“How much?”

“You work for Hydra, so I think you already know the answer.”

“Hey, I’m just trying to make conversation. Reestablish communication. That kind of thing.”

Coop tossed the pencil, caught it, and dropped it on the table, where it spun around like he was playing a sad little solo game of spin the bottle. His heart had stopped trying to break out of his ribs, but it still wanted to leave. Preferably with Coop, but it was open to alternatives.

“So, reestablishing communication means sending a hit squad to grab me off the street?” said Coop.

Giselle shook her head. “That was not my idea.”

“But you don’t mind it happening.”

She cocked her head slightly. “Well, I do kind of wish I could have seen your face . . .”

Coop spun the pencil. The damned thing kept pointing to him. “So, what, you’re the Girl from U.N.C.L.E. these days?”

Giselle swung her legs as she talked. “I’m just like you. I blew a job and the DOPS showed up and told me that I could join the party or scrub prison toilets for the next fifty years.”

“Fifty years? I just got threatened with life. They must love you.”

“People sometimes do,” she said.

“Don’t worry. It’ll pass.”

She stopped swinging her legs. “After I left, did you look for me?”

“I would have, but it would have cut into my drinking and lying on the floor in a fetal position time.”

“I’m sorry. That wasn’t what I wanted. I just . . . needed to get some space to clear my head.”