“The Meridian is needed elsewhere.” Julia’s tone shuts it all down. “Miss Baxter, if you please.”
Mia looks at me. I can see the question in her eyes. Is this okay? Should I push back?
I want to tell her to stay, want to grab her hand and tell Julia to fuck off while I take the helicopter ride back to New York with her instead of alone with my handler.
But thirteen people are dead. Because ofme. Because I chose a woman over my duty. I’m going to have to sit with that truth for the rest of my life.
“It’s fine,” I tell Mia. “I’ll call you when I get back.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah.” I lean in, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Thank you. For today. For…everything.”
She searches my face for a moment longer then nods. “Be careful.”
I watch her walk toward the helicopter, the men in suits flanking her. She looks back once, her expression unreadable in the fading light, her hair whipping around her.
Then, the doors close, and she’s gone.
Julia stands beside me as the helicopter lifts off, the rotor wash flattening the grass around us. We watch it rise into the darkening sky, banking east toward Bozeman.
“She’s going to be a problem,” Julia says quietly. “I can feel it.”
I don’t respond. How can I? Deep down, in the part of me still capable of honesty, I know she’s right.
Mia Baxterisgoing to be a problem.
And I’m going to let her be one anyway.
CHAPTER 27
MIA
Dreamt about you last night.Woke up hard.
I keep staring at that last text message from Nate. We haven’t seen each other since Montana—he’s been swamped with disaster relief, public appearances, company meetings, all of it penance for disappearing. As for me, I’ve been busy meeting with Bayo and Kat, gathering more intel and trying to keep Nate off my mind, though I keep failing spectacularly.
Please come over tonight?he’d texted this morning.Danny can pick you up. I’ll cook. I promise more cheese.
I’d typed back that I had writing to do. Which is true, just not the whole truth.
The whole truth is that I need distance, need to remember why I’m here, what the mission actually is, who I’m supposed to be. In Montana, with his childhood and his secrets spread out before me, I forgot. I let myself pretend I was just a woman falling for a man. Let myself believe the lie I’ve been selling.
I’m starting to love that lie.
My phone buzzes. Bayo.
Contact confirmed. Tonight, 9 p.m. Dead zone. Bring Kat.
I delete the message and reach for my laptop.
Time to remember who I really am.
The subway platform at Jay Street–MetroTech is thick with rush-hour bodies, the air heavy with exhaust and sweat and the particular dampness of underground spaces. I spot Kat near the far end, leaning against a pillar, her camera bag slung across her chest, looking like every other freelance photographer in Brooklyn—tired, underfed, and vaguely artistic.
She falls into step beside me without acknowledgment. We board the A train heading toward Hoyt-Schermerhorn. It takes three stops and two transfers, a deliberately circuitous route designed to shake any tails, human or digital.
Or invisible, I think.
