“Fuck off, Lucian.”
As I descend in the elevator, I’ve already forgotten about Maddox Sports.
Calista Ferraro’s name rings through my brain as I recollect her face, her data. She’s like a ghost pressed into my psyche, and she will be until the job is done.
I step onto Park Avenue and immediately raise the collar of my coat.
It’s begun to snow.
2
FIRST GLIMPSE, HERS
LUCIAN
The shelter in the Lower East Side smells like beef stew and spices.
There is no way to glorify suffering, but this place is valiantly trying to look welcoming with paintings on the walls, muted but colorful cushions, and blankets.
Someone has funded this shelter generously.
The target is the first person I spot when I enter. She’s in a black woolen sweater, tight jeans, and boots that are two winters past their prime.
She’s talking to a grimy-looking man.
He’s smiling.
I stay in the shadows, even as I get closer.
Her voice is soft, her eyes an unusual shade of green—they clash with her auburn hair, but not in a bad way.
“Ben, I know it’s tempting to sleep on the train, but it’s going to drop below freezing tonight. You stay here, okay? We’ve got extra blankets, and I swear the stew tomorrow is going to be better. No more mystery meat.”
Ben chuckles. “I got no problem with mystery meat, Miss Calista.”
“I do,” a man by the window says.
She glances at him, her eyebrows raised. “And you—if I catch you giving your bed away again, I’m making you help me with inventory. That means counting every single sock.”
“And you’ll probably make me eat weird things, too,” the man grumbles.
“Kale is healthy.”
“Burgers are tasty,” he counters.
“I like kale,” Ben interjects.
The man by the window scoffs. “Kiss ass.”
They like her. They trust her.
It’s obvious—just as clear as the affection she has for them. She’s not faking it. It’s real.
I follow her around, staying hidden. It’s easy in a place like this, where so many come to hide.
In any case, if I am spotted, I’ll look likethem.
After identifying where she’d be, I changed. That’s the other thing I learned in the military—to fit in wherever I go. It’s an art, and I’m a master.
