"Roger."
Charlie was already moving. Camera up, scanning the crowd with the instinct of someone who'd spent five years finding the shot no one else saw. I shadowed her, close enough to reach her in two steps, far enough not to crowd the frame.
She worked. I watched.
The usual Valentine's scandals unfolded around us. A city councilwoman's hand on a man who wasn't her husband. A tech founder's wife arriving with her divorce attorney as her plus-one. A couple near the ice sculpture arguing through frozen smiles while a photographer from the Cupid City Herald pretended not to notice.
Charlie noticed. She always noticed. I watched her clock the Herald photographer's position, adjust her angle to avoid overlap, and frame the councilwoman's wandering hand against the champagne tower in the background. Three shots, quick and quiet, before the couple shifted. She checked the display, gave a small nod, and moved on.
That was the part most people didn't understand about what she did. It wasn't the sneaking or the costumes. It was the eye. She was good at it. Disciplined good. Five years of reading rooms, finding the frame that told the story, and pressing the shutter at the exact right second.
She moved through the crowd like she belonged there, because she did. Press credentials instead of a stolen uniform, and she looked more comfortable than I'd seen her all week. Her shoulders were back. Her chin was up. No scanning for exits or looking over her shoulder every thirty seconds. She was doing her job, and for the first time in six days, she wasn't also running from someone.
Not yet, anyway.
Twenty minutes in. Thirty. I tracked exits, tracked faces, tracked the woman in red who was making my job both easier and harder by being exactly where she was supposed to be.
I clocked Walsh's two associates before Cass called them out. They were circulating the ballroom in a loose pattern, never more than thirty feet from each other, never holding drinks. One stationed near the east hallway. The other drifting between the champagne station and the balcony doors. Neither had the lookof guests. They carried themselves like they were working, eyes up, scanning the crowd with the same attention I was. I filed their positions and kept moving.
Charlie paused near the orchestra stage to photograph the mayor's wife laughing with a man from the zoning board — harmless on its own, worth a lot in the right context. She framed it, took two shots, and glanced at me over her shoulder with a look that said she knew exactly how much that photo could be worth.
I almost smiled.
"East salon," Cass said in my ear. "Walsh is moving toward the main ballroom."
I touched Charlie's elbow. She glanced up.
"Walsh. Incoming."
Her jaw set. She lowered the camera and turned toward the ballroom entrance.
He came through the archway with two men flanking him. Unofficial security — the builds and the earpieces gave them away. Gregory Walsh looked exactly like his photos: silver hair, expensive suit, the kind of face that got votes. Smile wide for the donors and the cameras.
The smile held for about three seconds after he spotted Charlie.
I watched the mask slip. Subtle. You'd have to be trained to catch it. A micro-expression, less than a second: eyes widening, jaw tightening, the involuntary flinch of a man seeing the problem he'd spent weeks trying to eliminate. Then the politician took over and smoothed it all away.
But I'd caught it. And so had Charlie.
Walsh crossed the room. Unhurried. Controlled. Stopped in front of us with his hands clasped, head tilted at a friendly angle that didn't reach his eyes. Up close, the composure was thinner than it looked from across the room. Sweat at his temples. Atightness around his mouth that makeup couldn't hide. He was holding himself together the way men do when they know the ground is shifting beneath them.
"Miss Sinclair." He used the byline, not her real name. "I'd have thought you'd want a quieter Valentine's Day. After everything."
Plausible deniability. A concerned acquaintance making small talk. Anyone overhearing would hear nothing actionable.
Charlie didn't flinch. "Councilman. I go where the stories are."
Walsh's smile thinned. His gaze flicked to me, assessing, recalculating, then back to her. "Enjoy your evening."
He walked away. His associates followed.
I touched the small of her back. Steady. "He's rattled."
"Good." Her voice was even but her pulse was visible in her throat, quick and hard. "Let him be rattled."
"Cass, you get that?"
"Every word. June confirms Morello just arrived through the service entrance. East corridor, heading toward the private dining rooms."
