She put a hand on his. “You were kidnapped, and I know you’re still recovering. But remember that it’s over. You can come home.”

She didn’t understand. It wasn’t over at all. It was like he was still helpless on the back of that snowmobile, swiftly getting farther and farther away from Oberon.

They walked back to his hotel, discussing whether they could get the DOR to pay for a room for Victor. (Victor was broke. He hadn’t gone to prison, but he’d apparently gone bankrupt, his shop had closed, and no one would hire him because everyone knew he’d pled guilty to fraud. He was living off food stamps and handouts from friends.)

“You can stay in my room,” said Ángel. “There’s two beds.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m in the one by the window.”

“I prefer the one closer to the bathroom,” said Victor. “Because of my age.”

Ángel grinned at him. “Oh, please. You’re not that old.”

The real question, as they entered the hotel lobby, was whether Chandler and Marissa were going to be sharing a room. As the women made their way to the front desk, he pulled out his phone and saw that, during diner, Neil Jeremy had left a message. Cursing himself for missing it, he played it back:

“Ángel, this is Agent Jeremy. I wanted to let you know that I passed your message on to Oberon. He said that he’s been spending so much time with Mendel—that’s what they’re calling the new envoy—that he doesn’t have time to talk to you right now. But he says he’s glad you’re okay. Call me tomorrow and we’ll discuss renegotiating the terms of your contract—”

“What?” Ángel had stopped walking, not noticing that the others had gone on ahead. He stood in the middle of the busy hotel lobby, pressed his fingers to one ear, and listened to the message again.

“. . . he doesn’t have time to talk to you right now . . . he says he’s glad you’re okay.”

“What?” he whispered. He listened to it again.

Oberon doesn’t have time for you.

“Hey.”

He was sitting on the floor now, replaying the message again. Marissa was there, kneeling in front of him, prying the phone out of his cold hand. He leaned into her, rested his head on her shoulder, and they listened to the message together. Victor was kneeling too, his hand steady on Ángel’s back. Marissa handed the phone to Chandler, so she could hear it too.

“I thought—” said Ángel, breathless with pain. “He said— He told me he loved me.”

Chandler turned off the phone’s display decisively. “Ángel. I’m sorry, but—”

“Don’t,” Marissa said sharply, her hands in Ángel’s hair. “Now’s not the time, Chan.”