It’s twenty-two miles to Barrington. The highway is dry, and the air is cold and crisp. I go the speed limit and no more, as is my habit. I don’t risk exposing myself by getting tickets.

“It is too cold?” I ask as she rubs her hands together.

“No, I’m fine.”

“Do you like Doverton?” I ask.

She laughs a little. A short, sharp thing meant to say more than words can. “It’s fine.”

“Fine?”

“It’s small.” She shrugs. “Catty.”

“Bigger than Barrington. Some people in Doverton say they inbreed.”

“Like I said.” She looks at me just as I’m looking at her. She is just stunning. “Catty.”

I have to look back at the road. “How long have you been here? From Flint?”

“Can we stop this?”

“Stop what?”

“You know everything about me.”

I know what she means, and I’m not going to waste time denying it.

“And have you not looked for me in your records?” I shoot back.

She looks straight ahead, lips pressed together. Up ahead, lights dot the sky at the factory roof and on the very tops of the cranes. I pull off the highway.

“What did you find?” I ask.

“Nothing.”

“That’s disappointing.”

“Not a stub. People whose families immigrate usually get a stub. But you? Nada.”

There had been an FBI stub as recently as six months ago. In a way, knowing it’s gone is comforting. It means they’ve started.

In another way, it’s chilling.

“Where are we going?” she asks.

“You know the factory?”

“That’s a great place to murder someone.”

“Not if you want to get away with it. Half the town descends on it at seven a.m.”

“Are you on schedule to open?”

“Yes.” I don’t offer more because I don’t want to talk about the fucking factory.

The service road is rutted and bumpy. We’ll clean it up after we bring in the heavy stuff. For now, the car rocks like a boat on a stormy sea.

“How much do you know about me?” she asks.

“Not much.”

“Please. If you don’t know my social security number and the name of my first pet, I’ll eat my shoe.”

She thinks I’m lying. She doesn’t trust me, and she shouldn’t. My anger is in inverse proportion to how much of her trust I’ve earned.

“If you need salt, I’ll allow it.”

I stop at the factory gate. A guard sits in the little house. He’s not an ounce under three hundred pounds. His name is Bernard, but everyone calls him Butthead.

I roll down the window. “Bernard.”

“Mr. Bridge.”

“Keaton. Please.”

“Sure.” He peers into the window to see Cassie. “Ma’am. Can I see your driver’s license?”

“She’s all right,” I snap. Worse than Cassie’s distrust is her seeing someone else not trust me.

“Mr. Harden says.”

“I practically invented corporate espionage,” I say, losing patience. “I daresay this lady won’t pull a trick I can’t see coming.”

Cassie reaches one hand over me with her wallet stretched open with her fingertips. She’s closer. I can smell her. Vanilla and gunpowder. My God. She’s made of candy-coated bullets.

Bernard takes one look at the FBI ID and opens the gate. Cassie leans back, but I caught a whiff of her already, and it’s enough.

“You invented corporate espionage?” she says. “That was exculpatory.”

“Not really. It’s a quote from Gizmodo.”

I drive through the gate. The hulk of the factory grows larger as I approach. The windows on the first and third floors are lit with low-wattage LEDs. I pull into my spot and put the car in park.

“Want to make a wager?” I say.

“Again?”

I look at her. She’s leaning forward, genuinely interested. I like her curiosity mirroring mine.

“I bet you can surprise me.”

“I’m really boring.”

“That would surprise me indeed.”

I get out of the car.