Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 78334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Today is Thursday.
Cole left for a meeting with Malik’s FBI contact about half an hour ago. He kissed me on the forehead before he went, which is how he always says goodbye to me, and now I watch the clock on my laptop tick toward one fifty.
I tell myself I’ll be back before anyone even knows I’m missing. I tell myself this is necessary because Erik Lanning is dead and Adrian Schwartz says he has information that goes beyond anything currently in my possession. I tell myself I have an obligation to do this so the story doesn’t slip through my fingers.
I tell myself a lot of things.
At one fifty-three, I hear the familiar sounds of footsteps converging in the hallway, a door opening and closing, conversations getting further away.
I close my laptop and sit very still for a moment, hands flat on the table. I take stock of what I’m doing with the clear-eyed honesty I usually reserve for other people’s bad decisions.
This is probably a mistake, but I stand up. This will make Cole very angry at me, but I’ve committed to go anyway.
I don’t pack anything obvious. No bag, no laptop, nothing that reads as departure. Just my phone and my wallet tucked into my jacket pocket.
I quickly move toward the service corridor that runs along the east side of the building. I found it on day three, when restlessness drove me to walk every accessible inch of the building at least twice. It runs from the kitchen receiving area to a loading exit that opens onto the alley.
I have no clue if there’s an alarm attached to it. It’s not a fire exit, so that won’t automatically ping. It’s a matter of whether Jameson is protecting from intruders coming in but not keeping their people from going out. I bank on the latter and push through to the alley.
I hold my breath but don’t hear any noise other than a delivery truck idling somewhere on the next block. The door closes behind me with a soft, definitive click that I feel in the base of my spine.
I’m outside and no one seems the wiser.
The delicious cool autumn air washes over me and I stand in the alley for three full seconds, breathing it in. I take the time even though it’s precious to me, because if Jameson has been alerted I left, I’ll save them some hassle of chasing me down the street.
No one comes.
I turn left, head down the alley and come out on the parallel street. The Uber I ordered sits there, a gray sedan driven by a man named Omar who has a pine tree air freshener and Taylor Swift playing on the radio. I slide into the back seat and give him the address Schwartz provided, a high-end restaurant in Capitol Hill.
It relieved me he chose somewhere both public and populated. It’s exactly what I would have insisted on if I had scheduled the meeting.
I should find that reassuring, but I don’t.
The city moves past the windows as Omar navigates north, Pioneer Square giving way to First Hill and then the slow climb into Capitol Hill’s denser residential blocks. I watch it go by, soaking in the texture of Seattle as if I haven’t seen it for years rather than days.
My fingers find the bracelet at my wrist, fingering the silver bead that holds the tracker. I turn it slowly, the silver warm from my skin, and feel slightly safer with it on.
I think about the FBI meeting Cole’s sitting in right now, laying the groundwork to end this case, doing exactly what we agreed.
I think about Adrian Schwartz’s email. I have information that goes beyond anything currently in your possession.
The bracelet turns in my fingers, once, twice.
If Schwartz is genuine—if he really has what he says he has—this will be the piece that makes the difference between a story that creates public pressure and a story that puts people in handcuffs. A cooperating witness at the COO level, someone with direct knowledge of DelRey’s decisions, someone who can testify to what the emails imply—that changes everything.
That’s worth one lunch in a public restaurant. That’s worth an hour of Cole not knowing where I am, and hopefully, a forgivable offense, although I’ll definitely have to answer for my temerity later.
Omar pulls up outside the restaurant at exactly two twenty-two and I tip him well. The Capitol Hill sidewalk is busy, the lunch crowd still thick enough that the street feels alive, inhabited and safe.
I stand outside for a moment, hand on my phone. I could call Cole right now and tell him where I am. I could even send a text and let him be furious about it later from a position of information rather than ignorance. My thumb hovers for a moment, but then I decide against it. I’m doing my job, same as I would without Cole as backup. I tuck my phone into my back pocket and push through the restaurant door. A hostess with a blond ponytail meets me at the entrance podium.