The hotel room smells like cold coffee and dry-erase markers.
It's 3 AM. Hope is sleeping in the portable crib the front desk manager dug out of storage without a single question — God bless Montana people — and Damien's got his laptop open, printouts spread across the bed, a whiteboard leaning against the wall that he dragged in from the small conference room down the hall.
I'm sitting cross-legged on the floor in Damien's hoodie, eating gas station crackers, and staring at a photograph of Victoria Hale like if I look long enough she'll tell me her secrets.
She won't. She never has.
"Talk me through it again," I say.
Damien doesn't sigh. That's one thing I've learned about him in twenty nights. He doesn't sigh when I ask him to repeat himself. He just turns around, leans against the desk, crosses his arms.
