Kellin
Brody’s reflection reveals his presence before he opens his mouth.
The mirror behind the hotel bar fractures him into thin, glittering slices. His jawline’s sharp, and the careful angle of his shoulders displays a man pretending to act casually.
He leans toward a stranger in an off-the-rack charcoal suit, speaking just above a whisper. Neither man drinks. They touch their glasses only to move them, swirling the golden spirits without sipping.
I duck out through the service exit and wedge a maintenance sign in the door.
It’s well past midnight, and I can’t risk Brody’s attention. Even if he can’t place me, he’s likely to scrutinize anyone who spends time with his sister.
The last thing I need is for him to identify me before I complete my current mission. I’d hate to waste Rory’s solid detective work.
Even in the small parking garage, a faint hint of salt and seaweed assaults my senses. The air contains none of the staleness I associate with my city.
Brody’s Escalade sits three rows down, pointed out for a quick exit. Black, with a darker than legal tint on the windows, but not much different from the celebrity cars around town.
I sink to a knee and slide a tracker under the chassis until the magnet kisses steel. After a telltale click, my phone pings with a notification to confirm activation.
Declan’s S-Class Mercedes waits in the covered level, a metallic obsidian that flaunts the Franklins he laid down for the purchase. I follow the driver’s side and stop where the door meets the fender. Another magnet, another press, another small, obedient ping.
Two pins on a map.
Trackers set, I venture over to my rental parked a few aisles away and set out for the suburbs of Santa Monica, peeling away from the pier and the Cypress’s palm trees.
During the short ride, my mind drifts. To soft lips, even softer curves, and the taste of Maeve’s mouth beneath my own.
Her hair’s heady aroma—warm vanilla and spice—and the tiny gasps that slipped out of her when my hands traced her sides.
That was one hell of a kiss.
Leaving things unfinished proved even more difficult than the night before, when I abandoned her in the hall outside my room.
But the payoff will be worth the sacrifice. She wanted more. Practically begged for it, with the way her body responded to my touch.
I just need to remember that this all ends once I get what I came for.
Easier said than done.
Brody’s neighborhood smells of wet lawn and citrus. A far cry from the boutique hotel’s curated scented oil and incense.
The houses sit far back from the street in neat little plots, which adds to the trickiness of this outing, but I manage to approach his single-story Mission Revival home unnoticed.
I fix one camera, disguised as a mud dauber nest, under the eave and another across the street, where the bougainvillea I parked under drops paper-thin petals on the curb.
Declan’s house is a longer drive. Palisades money prefers walls to hedges.
I park my car two blocks over and cut between streets on foot.
Declan’s home is, unsurprisingly, attractive but overly large. Three stories of white stucco, terracotta roof tiles, wide windows, and tasteful archways.
I spring the gardener’s latch with the sliver of steel I keep clipped to my hip and prowl past the rosemary bushes along the damp garden path.
Declan clearly doesn’t expect many visitors. Few cameras. No guards in sight. At least, not tonight. Just motion lights dragging white circles across the grass.
I flow with the darkness and nest one camera under the garage soffit. I hide a second one aimed at the side gate in a sago palm because that door offers an ideal entry point for visitors trying to avoid the neighbors’ prying eyes.
A perfect place for me to keep watch.
