Eight
Bryn had refused to meet Dewey until dinner, legitimately citing piles of work to plow through, but now she regretted her attempt to not appear eager when she was the one in torment. To make matters worse, she’d told him to stay home and work his way through the dummy corporations and find the actual person who’d bought the tranquilizer that killed the guard.
It wasn’t a good use of his time. He’d probably finished it in an hour and was now playing some shoot em up computer game on the government’s time. The other day she’d found him deep in it with a kid from Japan and a lawyer in New Orleans. When it became apparent the kid was whipping both their butts, Dewey had logged off with that half-impish, half-sheepish smile that turned her heart into something foreign in her chest. She
