The kind of place built to signal success without apology.
The kitchen was spotless. Granite countertops, stainless steel appliances that gleamed under recessed lighting. No dishes in the sink. No clutter on the counter. A single wine glass sat in the drying rack, stem up, perfectly positioned.
A key turned in the lock.
The door opened and Vanessa Winthrow stepped inside, heels clicking softly on hardwood, a tailored charcoal suit still crisp despite the hour, a leather briefcase hanging from her shoulder.
She closed the door behind her, locked it out of habit, flipped the deadbolt, and flicked the light switch.
Joe Reacher sat in an armchair angled slightly away from the door, long legs stretched out. A pistol rested loosely in his right hand, a large suppressor on the end of the barrel.
His face was bruised yellow and purple along the cheekbone, one eye still faintly swollen, a cut above his eyebrow held together with butterfly bandages. His posture was careful, as if certain movements still hurt.
He raised the gun slightly, just enough to acknowledge it existed.
"Welcome home, Agent Winthrow," he said. "Please, sit down."
She stood there for a second, her hand still on the doorknob, her eyes fixed on him, calculating. Then she walked to the sofa across from him and sat on the edge, back straight, purse still in her hand.
Their eyes met.
She didn't look away.
Joe watched her for a moment, then shifted slightly in the chair. A faint wince crossed his face before it disappeared.
"Bill Kinsman was a good man," Joe said. "And smart. Very smart."
She said nothing.
"So when he always seemed to be one step ahead of me," Joe went on, "I figured that explained it."
He paused.
"But then Simmons was killed," he said. "And I thought, Kinsman's smart, but he's not telepathic."
Her grip tightened on the purse strap.
"So I mentioned that to a colleague," Joe said. "Someone much smarter than Kinsman."
He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, the gun still loose in his hand.
"And apparently," he said, "smarter than you."
Winthrow continued to look him in the eye.
"You know what she did?" Joe asked.
Winthrow didn't answer.
"She didn't chase theories," he said. "She didn't start with assumptions. She started with paper."
He watched her face.
"Federal long-distance records," Joe continued. "Itemized. Month by month. Calls out of the task force lines. Date. Time. Area code. Duration. No content. Just facts."
Winthrow's expression didn't change, but something flickered behind her eyes.
"She laid them out on a table," Joe said. "Yours next to everyone else's."
