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This is a direct continuation of last week’s eight—thanks to everyone who stopped by to comment!
For those of you who were wondering about Clyota’s professional secret, he’s just walked through the door to the deli—the big guy in library-issue body armor over there, with the dimples Clyota is still refusing to notice (when did he get those?):
I’d just taken a big bite of sandwich, and was completely aware of the picture my stuffed cheeks must have made as Charlie pulled out a chair and sat down. He angled his seat so his back was to the wall, a movement so automatic and unconscious that it would have made me smile if I could have.
Instead of swallowing hugely and choking to death, I opted for less haste and more dignity. Once I’d dealt with the mouthful, I took a sip of tea and said, “Hey. Quiet shift?”
“More quiet than yours,” he said easily, snagging a pickle. “Patricia filled me in. They’re going to keep the citizen who attacked you in the cooler until they can ID him. His DNA isn’t on file.”