Page 123 of The Wild Card
Crew’s truck screeches to a stop behind the Nissan.
He’s out before the engine dies, and I’ve never seen him move like this. Controlled. Coiled. Dangerous. This isn’t the Crew who leaves Post-it notes on the coffee maker and argues with Murphy about personal space.
This is Agent Jensen. Holy shit.
The guy takes one look at him—6’3”, shoulders like a wall, a look in his eyes that promises violence—and suddenly remembers somewhere else he needs to be.
“We’re good here,” Crew says.
It’s not a question.
The Nissan peels away so fast the tires squeal.
And then Crew turns to me, and he’s furious.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine. He was just—”
“Blue Nissan. License plate. You were sending me evidence.” His voice is tight. Barely controlled. “Like you were about to be murdered.”
“I was being smart—”
“I was twelve minutes away and couldn’t do a goddamn thing about it.”
I stare at him.
He’s breathing hard. Jaw locked. Hands clenched at his sides. And for a second—just a second—I see something underneath the anger. Something raw.
“Crew—”
“Get in the truck.”
The drive home is silent. His knuckles are white on the steering wheel. He hasn’t looked at me once.
“You’re angry,” I say quietly.
“Yeah.”
“I didn’t mean to drag you into—”
“That’s not why I’m angry.”
I wait for him to explain. He doesn’t. Cool. Great, then. Good talk.
When we pull into the parking garage, he cuts the engine but doesn’t move. Neither do I. We just sit there, the silence thick enough to choke on.
“Twelve minutes,” he finally says. His voice is rough. Quiet. “That’s how long it took me to get there. Twelve minutes where anything could’ve happened, and I was just… driving.”
My chest aches. I want to reach for him. Touch his arm. Tell him I’m okay, that nothing happened, that I’m right here.
But we’re not together anymore. He made sure of that.
“Crew…”
He gets out of the truck before I can finish.
Inside the apartment, Murphy greets us at the door with an indignant meow, winding between our legs like he’s trying to trip us both.
