“Yes, if.” Spade pinched his lower lip between finger and thumb and looked gloomily at her. The vertical creases over his nose deepened, drawing his brows together. “How bad a hole are you actually in?” “As bad,” she said, “as could be.” “Physical danger?” “I’m not heroic. I don’t think there’s anything worse than death.” “Then it’s that?” “It’s that as surely as we’re sitting here”—she shivered—“unless you help me.” He took his fingers away from his mouth and ran them through his hair. “I’m not Christ,” he said ir…
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