Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 58377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
That’s the official line; it still tastes like thin soup. I holster my SIG, grip Anderssen on the shoulder. “Good work, brother.”
“Just keep your head clear.” His gaze flicks to Cam.
“Got it.”
My phone buzzes. It’s Dean’s satellite line. I accept. “Status?”
“Kingsley House is operational and paparazzi diverted. PD scrubbed staff comms; one caterer texted a tabloid cousin about the bomb but no direct link to the perp. Keep eyes peeled for inside cameras tampered before the gala.”
“Copy. We’re wheels up in twenty.”
He pauses. “Sawyer, remember: protect the principal, collect evidence, but don’t escalate without probable cause.”
“I know the drill.” But my tone is pure flint. Dean catches it.
“And keep your heart out of the trigger guard.”
Too late.
We snake down the mountain. The lead SUV is driven by Andersson, mine in the middle with Cam beside me, and Rae bringing up the rear. Cam’s earbuds play a lo-fi playlist but she pulls one bud out every five minutes to ask: “Can you really track a drone feed in motion?” “Will paparazzi still be there?” “What’s first thing you’ll do when this is over?” I answer each patiently. (“Yes,” “Probably,” “Kiss you in public.”) That last one steals her breath—and mine.
A news notification beeps on her phone. Instinctively, she silences it but the glare says the headline was ugly. “Maybe it’ll blow over now that we left,” she mutters.
“It will blow over when I string their ringleader up in court.” I flick the turn signal at a switchback. “I still lean inside job. Last night Rae found a data logger on a defunct access point at Kingsley House—someone piggybacked internal Wi-Fi to send those gala photos.”
Her mouth tightens. “Someone I grew up seeing every day?” The betrayal laces her voice.
“Or a temp contractor. The search narrows.” I brush her thigh, trying my best to comfort her. She covers my hand and squeezes.
The mansion looks unchanged when we reach it. From the outside you’d never tell of all the changes. But up close, new bullet-resistant glass is noticeable, a faint green sheen across the lower windows. Two black K-9 SUVs idle; officers walk shepherds along the hedges. There’s a paparazzi camp beyond the gates, their lenses like gun barrels. They surge when our convoy rolls in.
Cam stiffens. I park beneath the porte cochère. Immediately Riggs and Andersson form a shield, Rae coordinating luggage.
Gregory strides out, relief etched deep. “Pumpkin!” He engulfs Cam before she unbuckles.
Inside the foyer, the smell of new varnish mixes with lily arrangements leftover from the gala. Gregory pulls me aside into the study lined with leather-bound volumes.
“Thank you,” he says, closing the door. “House feels like a fortress. Still, Cam mentioned you think it’s an inside leak?”
“Yes. Gala photo came from our own network. I’ll interview each contractor personally.” I slide a folder onto his desk—names, background flags. “I also urge you to suspend deliveries and limit staff rotations.”
He rubs his temples. “Our chefs quit on the spot after the bomb fiasco. Replacements start tomorrow.”
“That’s a vulnerability,” I warn. “No one new until we vet them.”
He hesitates. Investor brunch is in three days. But he nods. “Do it.”
We exit. Cam waits by the stairwell, hugging her tote of brushes like a life raft. I cross, lowering my voice. “Why don’t you finish the lake scene in your studio? I’ll sweep the east wing.”
She catches my arm. “Stay close?”
“Always.” I squeeze, then gesture Rae to shadow her upstairs.
Interviewing the staff would normally fall to Anderssen or Rae, but I want to look each suspect in the eye.
I interrogate the Kingsley gardener (alibi: hospitalized mother), the IT subcontractor (cleared via MAC log), a new maid recommended by an agency (nervous but clean). By 18:10 Andersson reports no anomalies.
But my gut churns. Something still rots. I join Riggs in the security room—twelve monitors feed from new cameras. He rewinds gala footage again. We freeze on an image of the catering corridor camera at 22:18—just before the bomb. A figure in chef whites pushes a trash bin. The badge ID tag blurs.
I zoom. Riggs curses. “Badge is a photocopy.”
“Cross-check photo with agency files,” I bark. Andersson inputs—no match. So the bomber was inside that night disguised as waitstaff. Access given by the replaced catering team.
My phone vibrates. It's Cam.
Dinner break? I made sandwiches. Olive loaf—don’t judge. Veranda.
I smile despite the gloom and head toward the veranda.
The house is quieter. Gregory’s in his office, and the staff is minimal. Cam sets two plates on a small round table overlooking the garden. The sandwiches are crooked, mustard heavy. I bite anyway, and it tastes like normal life.
She eyes monitors visible through the archway. “Find anything?”
“Suspect used a fake badge, and borrowed a uniform.” I push lettuce aside. “We’ll track them.”
Her shoulders slump. “I’ll never feel safe again, will I?”
I lean, brushing my knuckles across her cheek. “You will. Safety isn’t the absence of threats; it’s the presence of trust. In me. In yourself.”