The Permanent Efficacy of Grace

10.

Rook wakes in the morning to Jacob moving quietly around, getting ready for the day. (He's still staying away from her bed, for reasons she can't quite fathom—though she supposes things are still almost unbearably tense between them at least half the time, so maybe it's for the best.)

This isn't unusual, she usually wakes for at least a minute when he's getting ready to leave, but typically falls right back asleep, and somewhat to her surprise, he's never made an issue of it. She'd expected the military man in him to chafe at her staying abed till nine, sometimes ten o'clock in the morning, but then again, he probably figured that if he said anything she'd tear his face off, given that she's pretty well confined and doesn't exactly have many other things to do. He can be smart that way, on rare occasions.

This morning, though, she pushes herself up on her elbows when she hears him, peering blearily across the room at him. He notices her attention, looks up at her from his seat on the cot as he pulls his boots on. His expression is inquisitive, but she just looks across the room to find that the doors to the balcony are still closed from the night.

"What time is it?"

"Bout six," he says, pulling his laces tight and tying them. "Go back to sleep."

She's not going back to sleep, her heart and mind already racing, but she feigns obedience, slowly easing herself back down onto her back (and noting, pleasantly surprised, that neither sitting up nor lying down causes her more than a dull twinge of pain). She keeps her eyes on him, though, and tries to sound appropriately muzzy—maybe even a little bit plaintive—when she asks, "Where are you going?"

He stands up to get his jacket and shrugs it on. "I'll be away for the day. Whitetails struck at the Lodge last night. I have to head down there, see what we can salvage from the ashes."

She's awake enough to notice that the normal icy, tightly-contained rage that she always got over the radio when she ruined the cult's infrastructure—the kind she'd expect to see from him any time someone dares to fuck with him and his—is absent. He seems annoyed, sure, but not seething like he seemed to whenever she crossed a line. It's weird.

She prods a little bit. "Do you ever think," she proposes, staring at the raftered ceiling, "that one of these days they're going to mount an attack in hopes of luring you out? What if they're waiting around to ambush you?"

"I think that every time," he says lightly, and lays a hand on the pistol holstered at his thigh. "That's what this is for."

"Still. You should let me come."

He huffs at that, a disbelieving, almost inaudible little laugh. "Cause you're so eager to shoot all your little friends, is that it?" She doesn't need to look at him to know he's got his hands on his hips in that half-authoritative, half-exasperated pose he takes whenever she's frustrating him (which she usually does deliberately, but she has no intention of admitting to that).

"Maybe," she says. "Maybe I'm pissed off that they turned their backs on me."

Silence for a second, then the floorboards creak under his boots as he comes over to her bed. For a second, she feels a flash of concern, worry that she's overplayed her hand and tipped him off that she's plotting something, but when he stops beside her and she turns to look at him, she can read the faintest traces of wry amusement in his otherwise blank expression—no suspicion. He looks down at her and declares, "You're full of shit."

She returns her gaze to the rafters. "I know."

"I'll be back tonight. You should rest up. Eat something. Go see Keter." He pauses, and she knows what's coming. Sure enough: "When I get back… we should talk."

So he, too, feels the tension, the inevitability of his family hovering just over their heads. He'd have to be an idiot not to. She just nods and tries to look exhausted. Thinking about Eden's Gate and its agenda—whatever that might be right now—it's not hard.

Jacob looks at the door, but doesn't move. Watching him hesitate, she's struck with the sudden fear that he's about to say something sweet, or something awful—something to make her second-guess her plans either way, so after letting the quiet linger a beat, she says, "Okay, why do I get the feeling you're about to pat my head like I'm a dog?" He glances back at her, and she spots the traces of a smile at the corner of his mouth—of course he thinks that idea is funny—before he scowls through it instead.

"Don't do it," she warns him as he shifts his weight. "Don't—"

His expression doesn't change, but he reaches out, brings the palm of his hand down to the crown of her head, and it makes contact for about half a second before she punches his wrist as hard as she can—which, given the angle, isn't very hard at all, but the blow does dislodge his hand, and she's struggling upright and bringing her other hand up to mount a double defense, in an instant devolving to the slap fight training she received on the playground in elementary school. "I'll fuckin kill you," she gnashes out through gritted teeth. "Fuck off immediately."

Jacob withdraws. The smile is more insistent at his mouth now, though he's still fighting it, still trying to maintain his usual stern mien. Rook, reassured that she's safe for the moment, puts her back against the headboard and glares at him. "What exactly is your damage?"

He gives her a half-shrug, one shoulder lifting then falling nonchalantly. If he weren't Jacob Seed, she'd say he looks very pleased with himself, but he's back to the caveman act, apparently; he turns away and picks up his rifle and puts the strap over his shoulder. "Be back later," he says.

"Yep," she sighs, and he leaves, closing the door behind him.

No sooner does the door shut than Rook is out of bed, retreating to the bathroom. Jacob is an efficient soul; she doubts that he and whatever squad he's taking along with him will drag their feet about leaving. She figures they'll have left the property in fifteen minutes, giving her a convenient window of time wherein to prepare.

A quick cold shower later, she gets dressed, pulling on the shapeless Peggy pants and taking one of Jacob's thermal long-sleeved shirts (he only has a few, but the mornings are brisk, and she sure as hell isn't about to take one of his extremely-recognizable jackets). The shirt pools around her. Despite the fact that he's inarguably slim and her body has most charitably been described as "athletic," his big shoulders and longer torso mean he wears a larger size shirt than she does, and between the stress, the injuries, and never quite knowing when her next meal is coming, she's lost weight. She frowns as she rolls the sleeves up to her elbows to get them out of the way of her hands. For her, lost weight means not only lost fat but lost muscle. She's been off her game for weeks, even before O'Hara and all the recuperation time she's spent at the Veteran's Center. She's probably weaker than she's been in months.

"Gotta fix that," she mumbles to herself.

But not today.

The rumble of motors in the courtyard below prompts her to go to the balcony doors, to open them up and confirm that a small caravan is on the way out. Right on time.

She doesn't take anything from Jacob's office—she doesn't have anything to take. Anything she needs, she's sure she can pick up on the way.

She goes down to the infirmary, and though she gets a few unfriendly looks, the Peggies have had enough time to adjust to her presence, and she isn't stopped.

She announces herself to Keter with a jaunty shave-and-a-haircut rap on the doorframe and a "Hel-looooo! Anybody home?" Keter's in plain sight, of course, working on a wounded Peggy woman, and she doesn't bother to look up at Rook's arrival. "Take a seat," she says. "It'll be a minute."

Rook doesn't take a seat, preferring instead to draw near and grimacing when she sees the injury—the woman somehow managed to impale her calf on a sharp branch. "Yeesh," Rook says. "How'd that happen?"

"Stay away from me, Sinner," says the woman, struggling to sit up, clearly uncomfortable being out of commission with Rook so close.

"Deputy, please," Keter says, her tone making it clear that she's not asking.

Rook puts her hand up in surrender and retreats to a bed across the room. She plants her hands on the edge and watches as Keter stitches up the still-uneasy Peggy, exchanging some low words with her before the woman limps away at a scurry, not without shooting one last glare at Rook.

"What was her deal?" Rook wonders out loud.

Keter doesn't answer, just approaches, gesturing impatiently with her hands for her to lift her shirt up. Rook complies, hiking up the hem of Jacob's sweatshirt and letting Keter pull back the bandages and examine the wounds.

"Pretty good, huh? I'm healing like this was a movie."

"Easy," Keter cautions, clearly unimpressed. "Let's not forget the state you were in when you got here." She uses gloved fingers to probe around the healing wounds, and when Rook doesn't flinch, straightens up with an approving nod. "Those stitches can come out now. Sit tight."

It takes only a minute or so for Keter to clip and remove the stitches, and as she does, she goes through the guidelines: keep the site clean, take it easy and avoid bumping it, scratching it, or otherwise putting strain on the still-healing wound, keep to the antibiotics schedule, come to Keter immediately if she notices any unusual redness, pain, or discharge. Rook nods impatiently along, thinking I know how to take care of injuries, but she doesn't dare to voice it out loud, lest Keter remind her again of how bad she'd let that bullet graze get.

"You're in a chipper mood," Keter observes after she's done, watching Rook roll the sweatshirt down over her stomach again. Rook pauses, but only for a split second—Keter's smart, shrewd, and she doesn't want to give her reason to be overly suspicious.

"Yeah," Rook says brightly after straightening her shirt. "Wounds are healing. Nice to not have to worry about busting stitches anymore, you know—things are looking up."

"Hmm," Keter says, eyeing her carefully. She doesn't appear to fully believe her, but Rook can see the exact moment she figures that Brother Jacob is more than capable of handling anything Rook might be up to—she shrugs, snapping off her gloves and moving away. "Well, don't do too much too fast, or you'll be right back where you started."

"Yes ma'am," Rook says, punctuating the words with a salute, and she hops to her feet. "Permission to leave?"

"Go."

Rook goes—maybe a little further than Keter had intended for her to. She hasn't exactly been a regular sight around the Veteran's Center over the past week or two, preferring not to court another confrontation like the one she'd had last time she was in the cages and keeping mostly to Jacob's office, but she's been around for long enough that the word of her presence has to have spread to just about everyone. She tests the idea by spending a few minutes walking around the front courtyard, and while she definitely gets some dirty looks, nobody stops her or asks her what she's doing. She's not sure exactly how far Jacob's protection extends, but she'll bet it's far enough to get her where she wants to be.

Which is by the cages at the back border of the compound, behind the building and away from the prying eyes of most of the rest of the grounds. She's not sure why this group of cages fell into disuse (the pool of standing water from last night's rainfall gives her a clue, but then again, she'd think that a hierarchy of cages—"bad" to "good"—would fit in with Jacob's whole program), but she used them to sneak in and out again that one time a while back, and intends to do the same now.

She's pretty sure that even though nobody's in this little back yard with her, she's still being watched—Eli and Jacob draw from the same well when it comes to tactics, and by now she's figured that for Jacob to always seem to know where she is and what she's doing while she's up in the mountains, he must have a similar surveillance setup to the Whitetails'. She has no doubt that includes the Veteran's Center, but she doesn't let that stop her from grabbing the edge of the cage nearest the wall and hauling herself up on top of it. Jacob's not here to correct any misconceptions the Peggies have about her freedom (or lack thereof, as the case may be), and though she's sure he has a walkie and they can check in with him, it'll take them valuable seconds to get his answer and catch up with her. She's happy to roll the dice.

(Besides, she's not entirely sure she's meant to be a prisoner here. She hasn't exactly been locked up, but that could easily be Jacob's confidence that she's been too injured to escape. If he sends the dogs after her, she'll have her answer to that question.)

She has a moment's misgiving when she jumps the short gap between the cage and the wall—she catches herself, but her body slams hard against the concrete and her still-healing injuries send out a shock of pain the likes of which she hasn't felt for a while. It almost takes her breath away, and she scowls—focus—and laboriously hauls herself up and over the wall. It's harder than it used to be, even after just a couple of weeks of downtime. I'll work on it, she promises herself again, and then lands on the ground on the other side.

She holds her breath as she pulls up her shirt and checks her stomach, but there's no blood, and the raw, puckered spots that mark her healing wounds don't seem any redder or angrier than they already have been. She breathes a little sigh of relief, admonishes herself to take it easier, and picks up her pace, hiking into the dense tree line and the steep incline that acts as a natural defense at the Center's back.

It takes her close to an hour to trek the quarter-mile or so it takes to loop around St. Francis's grounds and start heading south again—the terrain is rough and Rook is weak, but she sticks to it, not wanting to pop out into the open again so close to her erstwhile prison. By the time she emerges from the dense wood onto a well-trod hiking trail headed south, a light sheen of sweat has accumulated on her forehead despite the cool air.

It's a beautiful day, last night's rain having made way for sunshine and cloudless blue sky, and it's cool, but not as cold as it has been. Between Jacob conveniently leaving in the morning and the perfection of the day, Rook can't help but feel like someone up there is keeping an eye out for her. She finds a walking stick (she doesn't need it, but it's perfectly staff-shaped and she's not just going to leave it by the path like garbage) and heads southwest.

She'd be lying if she said she wasn't expecting to get hit out of nowhere with a Bliss arrow any second, the way she has so many times before, but somewhat to her surprise, the peace holds. Even when she hears voices in the distance and creeps over a ridge to see the familiar sight of a carjacked civilian being held at gunpoint by a mountain man of a Peggy, she doesn't receive any warnings, any indicators that she should mind her own business or else.

So she doesn't. Sending up a silent thanks that the Peggy appears to be alone (she's not sure that in her shape she'd be able to handle two mountain cultists; they seem to be of tougher stock than the Peggies everywhere else), she stealths her way to the road, using trees and shrubs and then the Peggy's truck for cover.

Waiting for him to properly turn his back to her, she hears the tail end of the sermon he's delivering to his captive: "…already dead in the water, you just don't know it yet. Your deputy saw it. It's why she turned on you." Despite the words, his tone is gentle, reassuring. "But it's not too late. It's never too late. Repent, and you can be forgiven."

"Yeah," the woman says, sounding unimpressed, "well, you can go fuck yourself, and so can the Deputy, for all I care."

Rook's seen enough of these little roadside encounters to know that the guy's next step is busting the woman's skull with the butt of the gun as punishment for mouthing off, and she has no intention of letting that happen. Sure enough, as she rounds the truck, she sees the Peggy lifting his rifle high with both hands and his captive flinching away with her eyes screwed shut tight. She leaps forward, grabs the barrel with both hands just as he tries to bring it down, abruptly arresting its descent. He turns, confused by the sudden attack, and Rook is already using his surprise against him, wresting the gun up and thrusting it at his face. He resists, if only reflexively, but Rook is pleased to find that her strength hasn't entirely gone to seed—added to the adrenaline rush she always gets when she enters combat, it's enough to score a direct jab to his nose with the bolt, and when his grip loosens with the shock of the blow, she tears the gun out of his hands and uses it to club him in the temple. His knees turn to water and he goes down.

She could follow up—she doesn't think the blow was enough to do much more than stun him for a minute or two—but something stays her hand. (Probably the same thing that kept her from keeping hidden behind him and cracking his neck to powder in the first place, but she doesn't really want to think about it.) Instead, she takes advantage of his dazed state, hurriedly swinging the rifle's strap over her arm and head and bending over to search him for anything she might find useful.

"You're her."

Oh, right. The hostage. Rook glances over to see that she's gotten from her knees to her feet, still looking slightly stunned. She's a few years older than Rook, dark-haired, dressed in the standard practical clothes and baseball cap of the Resistance. Rook looks long enough to see that she's not visibly injured, then shrugs and returns to her search.

Handgun. Fuck yeah. A pistol will be way more practical than a rifle if she's attacked—she's not planning on doing any long-distance fighting or stalking anybody today.

As she frees the gun from the Peggy's holster, the woman says, with considerably more rancor: "You sure got a lot of nerve showing your face."

As Rook straightens up again, checking the ammo, clicking the safety off then on again, she can't help but snicker, showing a brief, wry little flash of teeth. "I love you Montana people, I really do," she declares, reaching beneath her too-long shirt to tuck the gun away in the waistband of her pants at her back (she'd prefer a holster, but she doesn't think the Peggy will be out long enough for her to take his, and at least this way if something goes wrong she'll just blow off an ass cheek instead of something more vital). "I can save your lives but the second you're safe, you're spitting and hissing and biting my head off, not a 'thank you' to be heard. Y'all are like feral cats."

"The word's out on you," the woman continues, undeterred. "Everyone knows you defected."

"Is that what the cult's telling you?" Rook asks mildly, bending down to work the Peggy's walkie from his pocket. "I mean, I heard what this guy said, but is that the official party line?" It's not the worst idea, fanning the rumors of her dalliance with Jacob into an open flame. He hasn't been acting like he's using her to his advantage, but still, the opportunism of the move sounds like him, even if the smear campaign aspect of it doesn't necessarily.

This is John's handiwork, she thinks—but then reconsiders, remembering how John had kept their secret before, and now that she thinks of it, even after everything came out, he might be reluctant to use her connection to Jacob against her. Not for her sake—no, she just thinks it's fairly likely he wouldn't want to admit to the whole county that she'd chosen his brother over him, even for the benefit of the cult.

(Maybe she's giving herself too much credit and not enough to John, but she doesn't think so.)

No, this has Faith's fingerprints all over it—with Joseph's blessing, no doubt. It suits their matching, subtler (some would say sneaky) style. That's not to say Jacob doesn't know all about it, but it's sort of hard to be angry when she's spent the last two weeks recovering from a near-death experience at his headquarters. It's not like she can really argue the point.

The woman's pissed-off defiance is cracking—just a little bit, but Rook can see uncertainty in the set of her brows. "You telling me it's not true?"

"I don't know. What do you think?"

Anger replaces the uncertainty. "I think if I was accused of being a traitor and it wasn't true, I'd fuckin say so."

"I believe you would," Rook says. Now that she's through looting the Peggy, she lifts the rifle's strap over her head again—the woman tenses up, but Rook just uses the gun to gesture to the project truck near them. "I'm taking that. Any objections?"

"Do I look like I want a Peggy truck?"

"You sure don't. You probably want to take off, yourself," Rook adds as the Peggy groans softly and starts to twitch. "He's gonna wake up soon."

"And what if I just stove his head in?" the woman challenges her.

Rook shrugs. "Up to you," she says, and heads for the truck. She stashes the rifle securely on the passenger side and finds the keys left in the ignition, cranks up the car, and pauses to put on a seatbelt—and to glance through the windshield, tracking the resistance woman's movements. Her threat was an empty one, it seemed: she appears to have seen the wisdom in beating a quick retreat, and she's already in her car, sending dirt and gravel flying back over the prone cultist as she takes off. The Peggy himself is stirring, and Rook thinks she'd better follow suit.

She puts the truck in gear and heads south, wondering how far she'll get before running into a wall of Bliss.

Pretty far, as it turns out. She passes out of the mountains without incident, although she knows that even if by some miracle her departure from St. Francis's had gone unnoticed, the Peggy she attacked would have blown her cover the second he ran into one of his cohorts, and Jacob's eyes all over the mountain would have ensured that her little joyride was cut unceremoniously short… if he'd wanted it to be.

Which must mean he's letting her run. She's not sure how to feel about that.

What she does know is that she can't expect that leniency from John, but she can handle John. Even if Jacob tips him off to her presence in Holland Valley, he doesn't have the entire region set up with CCTV, and besides, she's never found his people to be as much of a challenge as his older brother's. She thinks she can handle a quick morning errand without running into trouble.

She fights a sudden rush of temptation as she skirts Fall's End on the west side, wanting to go into town, to see Jerome, to check on Mary May and play with Boomer for a spell, but she keeps the truck pointed south and passes the turnoff into town without wavering. If they'd been lukewarm-to-cold to her last time, there was no way they'd welcome her with open arms now, now that she's been MIA for weeks and the cult rumor mill has been working overtime. Even kindhearted, generous Jerome wouldn't be able to turn a blind eye to the rumors of her defection, and Mary May's more likely to run her out of town with a shotgun than to listen to excuses.

Rook doesn't blame them. She has a limited amount of goodwill left among the Resistance; she has to use it wisely. So she keeps going south, turning east after passing the Lamb of God church, and pulling into Rye Aviation just before noon. She notices that a blank wooden board has been secured over the "and sons" portion of the sign, and her heart thumps fast.

She parks close to the airstrip, at a distance from the house, and first checks the hangar, but Nick isn't there, although she sees his plane. She walks towards the house, her feet suddenly weighing a ton apiece. She's second-guessing this decision.

Nick's truck is gone, but she hears music coming from the house. After a second, she spots the open kitchen window, identifies it as the source of the tunage. It's heavy metal, though played at a quieter volume than metal usually is. Kim.

Rook goes to the window, because instinct tells her that keeping a wall between them will earn her more goodwill than not. Just walking in the door, she could be there for any reason, up to and including a brainwashed rampage, but if she makes it clear that she's not interested in stepping into Kim's space uninvited, she might get a little further. The sill hits her at right about chest level; she folds her arms over it and inhales deeply. Something smells amazing.

Kim's at the sink, washing out a big mixing bowl, and hasn't spotted her. Rook looks at her profile—she's wearing a huge sweater, making her frame kind of shapeless, but even so, she's obviously smaller than she was last time Rook saw her. There are shadows under her eyes and she's mouthing along rapidly to the indecipherable metal lyrics.

Then she spots the baby, asleep in a sway rocker on the kitchen tabletop, and gasps. She hadn't thought Kim would hear her over the music, but Kim does, gasping in turn and whipping around towards her, flinging the bowl simultaneously. Rook ducks, but Kim's got great aim, and the edge of the bowl clips her on her way down. "Ow!"

"Rook?"

Rook thrusts both of her empty hands up above the windowsill where Kim can see them. "I come in peace!"

When Kim doesn't follow up with a knife, Rook peeks over the sill. Kim has retreated to stand next to the baby, who has slept undisturbed through both the pumping metal and sudden commotion. When Rook appears again, Kim puts both hands over her mouth and behind them, she says, "Oh my god."

"Oh my god," Rook says. "You have a baby."

Kim drops her hands. "What are you doing here?"

"What do you mean, what am I doing here? You had a baby! Where the hell is Nick? What's he thinking, leaving you alone like this with the county crawling with Peggies?"

"You think I can't handle a few Peggies?" Kim demands, indignant. "Especially now that I'm not hauling her around everywhere."

"Kim, she's the most gorgeous baby I've ever seen," Rook says, and she's not lying. Maybe they got lucky, or maybe it's been long enough since the birth that the newborn potato looks have worn off, but the Rye baby is perfect, with long black lashes and a tuft of black hair right at the top of her tiny head. "Will you tell me her name?"

"We named her Carmina," Kim says, her eyes uncharacteristically soft.

Rook laughs. "How hard did Nick have to fight to make that happen?"

"Fight nothing—it was my idea. I've always liked that name."

"How are you feeling?"

"Like I just pushed a six pound, eight ounce person out of my vag," Kim says dryly. "Don't do it. Like, I'm glad I did it, cause I have her now, but I'm sure as hell not doing it again."

Rook cackles. "Don't worry, it's not part of the plan."

"About that."

"Oh, shit, are we talking serious now?"

"Unless you're going to tell me you're not hooking up with Jacob Seed."

Rook ponders this, then says, "Define 'hooking up.'"

"Rook," says Kim, managing to communicate horror, dismay, disappointment, and scolding through just the one syllable. Must be something they teach you when you become a mom.

Rook goes quickly on the offense. "Didn't you say John would have been worse?"

"You think that makes Jacob a good decision? I mean, how do you know you're not just brainwashed right now?"

"I don't," says Rook, although she's pretty sure Jacob knows she'll never forgive him if he tries to take that up with her again, and is pretty sure that he's not willing to risk it anymore. "Hence—" she gestures to the windowsill, the wall separating them.

"Like that'd matter if you decided you wanted to kill me," says Kim, finally starting to sound a little bitter.

"In that case I'd expect you to kill me. Keep that baby safe, and yourself."

"So that's it, then? You've just… joined the Peggies?"

"I didn't say that. You know me, Kim. Cult life isn't really my thing. All the sharing." Rook makes a face. "No thanks."

"Where have you been, then? John's telling everyone you've been living at Jacob's compound."

"Fucker," Rook whispers. She'd have preferred a lie, like that she'd become Joseph's personal bodyguard in a display of repentance or something—that, she could dispute.

Kim's eyebrows shoot up. "It's true?"

"Yeah, but not really on purpose. I kind of got stabbed, Jacob took me to the doctors there, and I haven't really been in any shape to leave before today."

Kim takes a long, deep breath, and Rook can see several warring impulses in her expression before she finally settles on the question she most wants to ask. "And he just… let you go?"

Rook frowns. This looks bad. "Yeah, but… like, we've kind of moved past the keeping me prisoner part of our relationship."

"It worries me that you don't find that worrisome." Kim exhales, frustrated, running a hand back through the buzzed-short side of her head. "God, I shouldn't even be talking to you. Nick would flip his shit."

It stings, of course it does, but it's no more than Rook expected. In truth, she's a little surprised she got this far, that Kim let her see the baby at all instead of just slamming the window shut in her face. "Ah, don't worry," she says, making an effort to sound breezy as she straightens up, tapping her closed fist on the windowsill. "Jacob told me you'd had the baby, so I just came by to check on you and get a glimpse of her. I wasn't planning to hang around, make things weird."

"Rook…" Kim sighs, looking even more conflicted now, clearly not wanting Rook to stay and potentially put her family in danger but just as clearly not wanting her to go, back to Jacob's arms and the hands of the cult. Rook understands how she feels.

"It's okay, Kim," she promises. "It is what it is." She turns to go, then remembers last second and doubles back: "Oh! So Jacob heard about the baby from John, which means John knows, and we both think he's probably going to try a shitheel move—no idea what, I don't think he'd actively try kidnapping her, but who knows with that asshole, am I right? Anyway, just keep an eye out."

"At this point I'd be shocked if he didn't make a move," mutters Kim, looking pissed off and put out. Rook gives her a wry smile, but, eager to get out before the mood sours further, she doesn't say anything, just makes her departure.