Total pages in book: 49
Estimated words: 46223 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 231(@200wpm)___ 185(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46223 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 231(@200wpm)___ 185(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
She huffs a breath that is not a laugh, not a sob. “Okay,” she says. “Let’s shut the doors.”
We move. I hand the evidence to hotel security with a chain-of-custody sheet and a stare that gets me everything I want. We exit through catering, a narrow corridor with bad art and good alarms. Brice tries to argue and then doesn’t because I say his name the way people hear when they’re an inch from a line they can’t see.
In the elevator, I text Dean the short version.
Note in tote. ‘I’m getting closer.’ Likely placed by sponsor rep Caleb. Rae has clip. Pushing to Turner at the FBI.
His reply is immediate.
Use the cover. Tighten the circle. Put Caleb on ice.
“You did good,” I say, and mean it.
“I almost threw up,” she admits.
“That can be ‘good’ in a lot of rooms,” I say, and get the ghost of a smile.
There’s complete silence for a beat, then she says, “I hate that he was so close to me,” she says quietly, like the thought is a cold that got under her coat.
“He was close to your bag,” I correct. “He wasn’t close to you.” I look at her until she looks back. “That’s the line. That’s the one I paint every time we move you. He’s going to learn to hate that line.”
She watches me for a second. “Riggs?”
“Yeah.”
“Thank you.”
I nod, and I watch as she relaxes slightly.
Back in the room, I put her behind the door, wedge it, set the alarms, move a chair under the knob the way old men who survived real things taught me. I text Rae to watch the hallway cam and Jaxson to scrape Caleb’s phone. I send Hayes a photo of the card; he texts back
Glue brand is cheap craft. Printer’s low on magenta. Local. I can smell it.
He’s joking.
Vanessa stands by the window, looking at the rain making its own map on the glass. I go to her, put my hand on her back, don’t move it when she leans into it.
“I’m getting closer,” she says, quoting the note with contempt. “So are we.”
“We’re already here,” I say, and let myself have one more second with her before I turn away. I can’t cross this line no matter how much I want to.
Tomorrow, we talk to Turner. Tomorrow, I walk Caleb out of a room and hand him to an FBI agent who loves paperwork. Tomorrow, we tighten everything until “close” becomes “caught.”
Tonight, I keep watch, and she sleeps. That’s the job. I just need to keep reminding myself of that fact.
6
Vanessa
Morning smells like hotel coffee and rain—that soft Seattle drizzle that turns the whole city into a watercolor. I wake to the memory of Riggs’s palm warm at the back of my neck and the cardboard edges of that awful note. Fear tries to creep back in. However, it hits a wall named Andy Riggs and slips off in the other direction.
Today’s stop: atelier, capital letters implied. (Eye roll) A designer the internet worships has loaned an entire rack for a try-on reel and “spontaneous” Behind-the-Scenes. Translation: five looks, three reels, a dozen photos, and a small army juggling steamers and garment bags while pretending we’re casual.
Riggs walks me down the service stairs two steps ahead, voice low on comms as he checks with Rae and Jaxson. His hand finds its usual place at my lower back as we cross into the loading bay, a light touch that somehow grounds my entire nervous system.
“Remember,” he says as the SUV door closes behind us. “We use the side entrance. No live posts. Your team stays in sight. If something feels off, you say it out loud.”
“Yes, Dad,” I tease, then soften. “Yes, Beard-Mountain.”
His mouth almost smiles. “Better.”
The boutique is a box of light tucked on a cobblestoned side street, all pale wood and glass and the kind of minimalism that costs a fortune. The designer—Elodie, long braid, measuring tape around her neck like a stethoscope—meets us at the side door with a flurry of cheek kisses and a breathless, “You angel, I’ve wanted you in my pieces since that rooftop video.”
Riggs’s brows tilt a fraction, and I pat his arm like stand down, it’s fashion. He’s already scanning—mirrors, corners, the reflection in the front window where a couple lingers with cappuccinos. He posts a hotel guard at the alley door, wedges something invisible under the hinge, and sets his back in a position that lets him own both exits with one glance.
Brice materializes in a cloud of stress and hair gel. “Okay, okay,” he claps. “We’re on a forty-minute window before the press call. Looks one through five, starting with the blue drape. Slo-mo twirl. Laugh like you’ve never laughed before. Then the gold lamé—”
“The what?” Riggs deadpans.
“Don’t worry,” I tell him, grinning. “You’ll like it.”