“Meal prep,” he said. “Seven days of chicken and rice. I’m trying a Szechuan chicken recipe.” Markus was the type to meal prep his meal prep.
High heels on the wooden gym floor interrupted their conversation. Their boss, Special Supervisory Agent Valentina Monroe, hurried into the training gym. In addition to being the boss, Valentina also happened to be Markus’s ex-wife. Not intimidating at all, especially since Valentina could make picking up dog poop look sexy. Her boss-lady wardrobe upgrade was all sexy pantsuits, elegant chignons, and classic heels that Gabby had seen her run in. Her whole look said, “Yes, mistress.”
Gabby’s look generally said, “Ma’am, do you need help?” But that was her magic as a spy. No one, and she meant no one, saw her coming.
“You two, my office. Now.”
Gabby glanced at the time again. “Umm, Valentina, I was supposed to be home a while ago—”
Valentina stopped and looked over her shoulder, Miranda Priestley style. “Agent Greene, national security trumps spaghetti night.”
“How did you know that?” Gabby asked, her jaw on the floor.
“I’m a spy. I know everything, and so should you.”
“So this one can’t wait until morning?”
“No,” she said sharply. “It absolutely cannot. I have an assignment. You need to start prepping tonight.”
Damn it. She texted Granny, who was at home with the kids. “Running late.”
Granny responded.
Granny:Get ’em, tiger!
Granny:But can you pick up a plunger on your way home?
Geez. Valentina stopped and adjusted a Louboutin. “I think I have a rock in my shoe.”
Granny:Lucas flushed something.
“Don’t you just hate it when that happens?” Valentina said, frowning at her designer shoe.
“It’s the worst,” Gabby lied. A rock in her Louboutin sounded like a dream.
Valentina was everything Gabby wasn’t. It’s not like Gabby was jealous, mostly confused. How could Markus go from Valentina to her? Was she Markus’s not-quite-midlife crisis? Instead of a Ferrari, he decided to get a middle-aged mom. It was almost unbelievable.
Once they were in her office, Valentina sat behind her desk and waited for Markus and Gabby to settle into the chairs across the desk. “Have you been following the Sheridan Lane story?”
Markus leaned forward in his chair eagerly. “Of course.”
“Where’s that?” Gabby asked.
“Not where. Who,” Valentina said with a click of her pen cap. “Sheridan Lane. You two need to find her.”
1700 hours, should have left work an hour ago, Valentina’s Office
Valentina turned her desktop monitor screen toward Markus and Gabby and pulled up a website.Uncommon Sensewas written across the top in large, bold font. Below the title was a candid photo of a middle-aged white woman with startling green eyes and brown, gray-streaked hair. While the woman hadn’t bothered with glamour or even makeup, something about her face drew a person in. It wasn’t her features or style—it was her intelligence.
Valentina gestured to the brunette. “This is Sheridan Lane.”
The website didn’t offer any description of Sheridan or her job, other thanUncommon Sense, which Gabby believed simply from her expression. Her gray-streaked hair and button-down shirt said no-nonsense. She looked like the kind of person who wouldn’t even consider visiting a psychic. The website tabs indicated that Sheridan had a podcast and a Substack, but good luck if you wanted to email her because there was no contact section.
Valentina pulled up an MPG file and clicked play. “This is security camera footage taken from Ms. Lane’s street cam yesterday morning.”
Valentina clicked play. In the video, the door opened, and a woman exited the building and turned to lock the door. It was clearly Sheridan in a turtleneck and a fleece vest. After adjusting her purse, she gripped the handle on the rolling luggage and wheeled it toward the street. A man helped her into a waiting car. The license plate was not visible.
“Ms. Lane was expected in Washington three hours after this footage was taken, but she never boarded the plane in Jackson Hole and missed her appointment with the president. There’s been no word from her since.”
