Page 136 of Problematic

He slid his hands into his pockets. “People believe boring explanations faster. Drama invites panic. Bureaucracy kills momentum.”

The crowd had shifted from predatory to annoyed. Good.

In less than ten seconds, Vale had turned my collapse from a weakness into a customer-service issue.

Beautiful bastard.

“Effective,” I said.

“You’re welcome,” he replied.

I pushed my shoulders back, ignoring the hot drag of torn muscle under my shirt. Pain still had its claws in me. The city wanted me weak. Vale had bought me ten seconds and a better story.

I stepped over the crack in the sidewalk and started walking again.

Slower than I wanted.

Upright, though.

Vale fell in beside me, calm as ever, while behind us the crowd began doing exactly what he had wanted them to do.

Mutter.

Argue.

Speculate.

Spread the wrong story first.

I glanced at him from the corner of my eye. “You enjoyed that.”

“I work in PR,” he said. “Of course I enjoyed that.”

A black car rolled past the mouth of the street too slowly. Vale saw it at the same time I did. His posture changed by a fraction. Mine did too. The wound in my shoulder kept knitting itself closed under the bandage, flesh pulling tight with a slow, hot ache. Pain made the world sharper. That was one of the few useful things about it. The car continued rolling down the block.

“Plate,” I said.

I started walking again, slower than I wanted. Vale matched my pace and kept himself half a step behind my left shoulder.

Vale’s phone buzzed.

He checked it, then went still.

“What?” I asked.

“False registration.”

“For the car.”

“Yes.”

The street seemed to quiet around us.

“And?”

He slid the phone away too slowly. I stopped walking. Vale looked like a man deciding how much truth might get him murdered in public. “Say it.”

“A similar car circled Harlow Street yesterday.”