The thing about The Riftline was that it smelled like motor oil and cheap beer, which sounds disgusting but was actually quite comforting if you were the sort of person who found comfort in places where things got fixed rather than just talked about. Jimmy was leaning against the bar, doing that finger-drumming thing he did when he was bored (which was most of the time), watching Aaron hunched over his phone

There was this bar rag just sitting there on the counter, and Jimmy had one of those moments—the kind where you realize that what you're about to do is monumentally stupid but you're going to do it anyway

Snatching it up, Jimmy crept closer with the stealth of a man who'd spent years dodging cops and pissed-off boyfriends. The rag hit Aaron square between the shoulder blades, and he spun around so fast Jimmy thought his head might actually detach from his neck. Aaron's face went through this fascinating color progression—pale to pink to red to that dangerous shade of purple that usually preceded violence.

Twenty minutes later he was weaving through Manhattan traffic with the kind of reckless confidence that came from having survived this long despite making consistently poor life choices. The offices of Gluck, Glick, Speer, Marino and associates occupied the third floor of a building that had seen better decades. Not fancy, but the elevator worked and the coffee was drinkable, which put it ahead of most places Jimmy frequented, even if the furniture looked like it had been purchased sometime in the eighties.

The receptionist gave Jimmy a look he'd learned to dread in professional settings—the kind of sympathetic expression that meant someone was about to deliver news that would complicate his already complicated existence.

"Mr. Suarez, I'm afraid Mr. Glick had to step back from practice unexpectedly. He suffered a heart attack last week and has decided to retire."

"Mr. Glick personally selected one of our associates to take over your case. She's been with the firm for several months now. He was very specific that she was the right fit for your... unique circumstances."

Standing in the doorway of what used to be Herb's office, looking every inch the professional lawyer in a way that somehow made her even more beautiful than his memories had managed to preserve, was the woman who had lingered in the back of his mind through every stupid decision he'd made since high school. The same face that had smiled at him across lunch tables when the world was simple and full of possibility. The same voice that had whispered his name in the back seat of his first car. The same person who had ripped his heart out when she'd chosen college over staying with him in Brooklyn.

He stood there, immobile, brain on standby for who knows how long, just staring. Fuck.

His mouth opened and closed like a fish that had suddenly found itself on dry land, before his brain finally kicked back into gear and remembered that he was supposed to be smooth, supposed to be cool, supposed to be the kind of guy who could handle seeing his high school sweetheart without having what amounted to a minor emotional breakdown in a law office. It didn't help much though, because all that came out of his mouth was

"Damn, Lookin' good lil ma....uh. Esquire."