I read through it twice, then signed.
The laptop prompted me to submit. I did.
A confirmation screen appeared:Thank you. Someone will be in touch shortly.
That was it.
No mission briefs. No organizational charts. No details about what I'd actually be doing or who I'd be working with.
Just paperwork and waiting.
I closed the laptop and set it aside, suddenly aware of how quiet the room was.
Too quiet.
I stood and paced to the window, hands shoved in my pockets, staring out at Charleston like the city could tell me what the hell I was doing.
Twenty-four hours ago, I'd been in Riga. Standing over Draconi's body. Alone, the way I always was.
Now I was here. In a luxury suite. Signing contracts with people who'd somehow taken care of Benson's family without asking for anything in return.
It didn't make sense.
Nothing about this made sense.
I pulled out my phone and navigated to Facebook, typing in the name before I could stop myself.
Rachel Benson.
Her profile came up—public, accessible. The photo showed her smiling with two of the kids, the third barely visible at the edge of the frame. Recent posts were sparse. A picture of a soccer game. A short thank-you to friends and family for their support during "a difficult time."
Nothing specific.
Nothing that confirmed what Silas had told me.
But nothing that denied it, either.
I stared at the screen, jaw tight.
If they'd lied—if this whole thing was smoke and mirrors—I'd know eventually. And when I did, there'd be hell to pay.
But if they'd told the truth ...
I closed the browser and pocketed my phone.
The room felt too small suddenly. Too contained.
I needed to move. To do something. Anything other than sit here and wait for emails and evaluations and decisions that weren't mine to make.
I grabbed my jacket and headed for the door.
Charleston in the afternoon was like a circus.
Tourists everywhere. Families. Couples holding hands. People who looked like they belonged here, like they'd never seen the things I'd seen or done the things I'd done.
I walked without direction, letting the city wash over me. Past historic homes with plaques that told stories I didn't read. Past restaurants with outdoor seating and laughter spilling onto the sidewalk. Past shops selling things no one needed but everyone wanted.
And then I saw it.
