Urban God of Rebate: Infinite Returns Of Women And Powers

”Understood,” said Patricia. She paused. ”Whoever is behind this. Are they dangerous?”

Sean thought about Vivian Castellan’s voice on the phone. About Edward Hale’s death certificate. About no skid marks on a mild winter road.

”They’re serious people,” said Sean carefully. ”That’s why I want you somewhere else tonight.”

”Alright,” said Patricia. ”Take care of yourself too.”

She hung up.

Sean looked out the window of the Rolls Royce at the afternoon city, processing.

Vivian’s people had moved to Patricia’s door within an hour of Sean leaving. Which meant either they’d been watching Patricia already and noticed his visit, or they’d been watching Sean and followed him there.

Either way the timeline had compressed significantly.

He texted Max.

Vivian’s people went to Patricia’s door an hour after I left this morning. She’s moving to her daughter’s tonight. Walsh is putting coverage on her house.

They followed you or they already had eyes on her, Max replied.

Both possible, Sean typed back. Either way they know I found something.

Does she know what she gave you?

She knows it’s important, Sean replied. She doesn’t know the full scope.

What are you going to do, said Max.

Sean looked out the window for a moment.

He thought about Vivian’s phone call last night. The specific quality of her voice when she said the objective was personal. The way she’d asked him not to stand in her way, genuinely, not as a threat but as something closer to a request from someone who expected to be understood.

He thought about Gerald Pemberton at eighty-one behind his desk full of paper files, saying he’d been wrong about what he’d put in motion.

He thought about a woman who made dresses and kept every document because paper was protection.

He thought about the balance on his phone, growing but not in the spectacular way he’d half expected. Steady. Earned in increments, not explosions.

I’m going to call Vivian, he typed back to Max. Not yet. Two days. When Elena has the preliminary title findings. When I know exactly what we’re holding before I sit down across from it.

And if Vivian moves before two days, said Max.

Then we adjust, said Sean.

He put his phone in his pocket and watched the city slide past.

—------

That Evening

He went back to the building at six, found Walsh’s car in its spot and a brief confirmation text that Patricia’s address was covered.

He went upstairs, changed into something comfortable, and sat at his desk for a while doing nothing in particular, letting the day settle.

His phone showed the balance one more time before he put it face down.

$2,178,480.

He thought about that number. About the line he’d just learned existed inside his own system. Spend on the fight, get the baseline. Spend on her, directly, and the math changed entirely.

He thought, briefly, about what he might actually do for Makima herself, something personal, something that had nothing to do with attorneys or surveillance or forty-year-old documents. Not tonight. But soon.

His phone buzzed. Makima.

Walsh told me about Patricia Moyer. You moved her somewhere safe tonight.

Walsh is thorough, Sean typed back.

Walsh reports to the person paying him, said Makima. Which is you. A pause. Thank you. For thinking of her.

She kept the document for sixty years without knowing why it mattered, Sean replied. She deserves the same protection as anyone else in this.

A longer pause from Makima’s end.

Sean, she wrote. The reason I want to pay back every dollar you’ve spent on this building and my family. It isn’t about money.

I know, he typed.

It’s because you are too kind , you always make sure everyone is okay, she wrote. The people who get overlooked. My father used to say that was the rarest thing in the world.

Sean sat with that for a moment.

He sounds like he was worth knowing, Sean typed.

He was, said Makima simply.

Another pause.

Dinner tomorrow, she said. Properly. Not takeout, not me making something fast between building tasks. Actually sit down dinner. I want to cook for you properly.

Sean smiled at the screen.

What time, he typed.

Seven, she said. Don’t be late.

I won’t, he typed back.

He set his phone down and looked out the window at the evening city. The streets below had the quiet particular to Tuesday evenings, the week not yet far enough along to generate the energy of the weekend or the heaviness of mid-week.

Walsh’s car in its spot.

Patricia Moyer somewhere across the city at her daughter’s house.

Elena Voss beginning a title search on a property that had changed hands multiple times in sixty years.

Gerald Pemberton in his suburban study surrounded by paper files, eighty-one years old and carrying something for fifteen years of quiet retirement that he’d apparently been waiting for someone to come and ask about.

And Vivian Castellan, wherever she spent her evenings, sitting with the knowledge that someone had been to Patricia Moyer’s house and come away with something she didn’t yet know the shape of.

Sean turned from the window and went to make coffee.

Two days. He needed two days.

He was getting better at being patient when patience was the right tool.

His phone buzzed one more time. Not Makima this time.

Olivia.

Day four of twelve. Kwon made us run the finale sequence eight times. I think I’m becoming part of the stage.

Sean smiled properly for the first time all day.

Eight days, he typed back.

Eight days, she confirmed. I’m going to need that dinner by the time this is over.

It’ll be worth the wait, said Sean.

It better be, said Olivia. Goodnight Sean.

Goodnight, he said.

He set the phone down and sat for a moment in the quiet apartment, the coffee warm in his hands, the building settled around him, the city doing its evening things outside.

Sean drank his coffee.

The board was being set.

He was almost ready to move.