Page 57 of Tracking Snow

"You're still here," Ariel says, rolling past with a crate of limes in her lap.

"I'm still here. I’ll be here as long as it takes. Which may be never because I don’t deserve it." I need her to know I know that, because maybe she’ll pass it on to Snow. Maybe part of me doesn’t want her to forgive me. I understand that one better. Being damned and unforgivable.

"Hm," Ariel says before filling a glass with water and setting it on a coaster in front of me before wheeling off.

She doesn't trust us, Six reports.

She shouldn't, says Four.

She gave us water, Five says. That's basically a hug.

It is not basically a hug. But it's also not nothing.

My presence is barely tolerated here, but Snow has made it clear I’m not allowed to patrol with her.

So I don't. I go four rooftops over from her rounds, in the dark, where she can't see me.

Except.

Two nights ago, she stopped mid-route on the Hanover Street roof, stretched her arms over her head, slow, luxurious, like a cat in a sunbeam, and then threw a dagger backward without looking. It stuck in the doorframe of the stairwell I was standing in. Eight inches from my shoulder. Then she walked to the ledge, dropped off it into a pigeon-perfect descent, and continued her night.

She knows, Six said.

She knows, Three agreed.

She's amazing, Five sighed.

We are all in so much trouble, said Two.

At two, the crowd begins to thin. At three, Geanie sweeps out the door, blowing kisses, and the music dies.

The lights raise, and everyone left files out. Rap flips the lock behind the last one. I'm still on my stool. Night three of nobody telling me to leave.

Snow comes around with a rag and a spray bottle and starts wiping down the bar top. The air goes sharp with antiseptic under all the leftover perfume and spilled liquor.

"You good, Snow?" Rap calls from her office, leather messenger bag over her shoulder.

The question is obviously about me. Does Snow want me bum-rushed out of here?

"I'm good," Snow says flatly.

Rap nods as Ryder materializes from the back hall.

They both slow as they head for the door at the same time.

Then Ryder takes the far side of the aisle, and Rap angles toward the bar, leaving as much floor between them as possible.

They’ve been circling each other like that all night, every night. Two dogs on a shared street, desperate and terrified, always keeping a leash's length of air between them.

He reaches the door first and pulls it open. Dead summer Boston heat rolls in, thick and damp.

Rap steps through, but her keys slip from her hand and hit the threshold with a jingle.

They both bend.

Their shoulders nearly brush. Ryder’s hand closes over the keys the same second hers does, trapping the silver ring between them.

For one breath, neither of them moves.