And they'd used the wordskeep America on the up and up.
That wasn't a coincidence. That was someone who understood exactly what I'd been doing. Someone who agreed.
I looked out at the city, the Eiffel Tower rising in the distance, tourists snapping pictures like the world wasn't falling apart.
Fuck it.
In for a penny, in for a pound.
I stood up, squeezed past the college kids, and hopped off the bus at the next stop. Flagged down a cab. The driver was Algerian, didn't speak much English, which was fine by me.
"Le Bourget," I said. "Airport."
He nodded and pulled into traffic.
I leaned back against the cracked vinyl seat, phone still in my hand, the messages glowing on the screen.
Charleston.
I'd never been. Didn't know a damn thing about it except that it was somewhere in the South and probably humid as hell.
But someone there knew me. Knew what I was doing. Knew enough to send a plane.
And I'd never backed down from a challenge in my life. I was a Dane.
The cab merged onto the highway, the city lights fading behind us, and I closed my eyes.
Whatever was waiting in Charleston, I'd deal with it.
Just like I always did.
3
AMELIA
By the time I made it back, the Embassy Suites lobby was mostly empty, just the faint echo of footsteps on tile and a concierge giving me a polite nod as I passed. I nodded back, heels clicking as I crossed to the elevator, every muscle in my body aware of how bone-deep tired I was.
I caught my reflection in the elevator doors while I waited—dark hair pinned up, lipstick smudged at the edges, eyes ringed with exhaustion.
The elevator dinged and opened. I stepped inside, jabbed the button for my floor, and leaned back against the wall as the doors slid shut.
The ride was short but felt like it stretched forever. My feet ached. My neck ached. My brain ached with too many impressions—Dominion Hall whispers, soldiers-in-suits, the mayor shining under the lights, the quiet, controlled laughter of men who knew how to pull triggers and strings.
The doors opened with a soft chime.
I made my way down the carpeted hallway, swiped my keycard, and slipped into my room.
Cool, air-conditioned air wrapped around me. Taupe walls, standard art, a king bed with too many pillows. Functional. Anonymous. It was the kind of room I’d stayed in a hundred times before in a hundred different cities, except this one smelled like ocean and cleaning solution instead of dust and diesel. It would do.
I kicked off my heels with a groan and padded barefoot across the carpet. The gown came off next, pooled in a puddle on the floor. I tossed it onto the chair by the window, then stood there in my bra and panties, staring at the city lights beyond the glass.
Charleston at night looked soft. Harmless. Warm light spilling from streetlamps, palmettos swaying in a barely-there breeze. Pretty, if you didn’t know better.
It reminded me of the villages we used to drive through before dawn overseas. Quiet. Sleepy. Normal. Right up until the moment something exploded.
I shivered and turned away.
In the bathroom, I washed off the night—foundation, mascara, half-melted eyeliner. The woman in the mirror stripped down to bare skin and tired eyes. More familiar. Less glossy. Better.
