I slow on the sidewalk long enough to shout, “Sure.Find nearby parking.I’ll text Tally when I need you.”
As I climb the marble stairs, I’m reminded of the Madame and her Parisian flat.The smoky room saturated in purple, gold and twinkling lights, and the cards.The Tower.Death.
Suddenly, I’m running.
I take the steps two at a time, and one thought hammers with each footfall: I won’t lose her.
Not again.Not ever.
ChapterTwenty-Two
Brie
Three sharp knocks—too loud, too urgent for a neighbor.The sound splits the stillness, vibrating through the floorboards before my pulse can catch up.I recognize the measured, precise pattern before I hear his voice.
“Brie!”Adrien’s voice carries desperation I’ve never heard before.I yank the door open.
“I have neighbors?—”
He grips my shoulders before I can finish, eyes wild as they scan my face like he’s checking for injuries.His hands are warm, almost shaking, the controlled businessman stripped down to raw instinct.
You’d think he’d shrink back from my annoyed glare but instead his hands tighten, anchoring me as he stares like he’s debating if I’m a hallucination.Our eyes lock in silent confrontation, a battle of wills, but then he gives me a slight shake.“You didn’t call.Nothing.I heard nothing all day.And then this?”His breath hits my cheek—coffee, rain, something distinctly him—and the contact blurs irritation into ache.
“What did Hudson tell you?”
I shrug out of his grip and reach past him to shut the door.
“Only that someone broke into your place.And left photographs.”
I step past him, heading down the hall.
“Why are you wearing gloves?”
Latex bites tight around my wrists, thin cover between me and the mess someone left behind.“Dusting for prints.Though whoever did this was probably smart enough to wear gloves too.”I gesture to my supplies spread across the coffee table.“Noah dropped off the kit.”I reach into my black duffel and pull out a pair of blue latex gloves for Adrien.“Here, until I’m finished, wear these.”
“Where are your colleagues?”He’s scanning the space like he expects multitudes of people to exit from the crevices.
“It was only Noah.He went back down.”
“Down where?”
“Your office and the club.”
“Why?”
“Information.”It should be clear.
He reaches for one of the photographs, and I slap at his arm.“Gloves first.Here, look at those.”I direct him to the photographs I’ve already dusted, but with no luck.
The photograph he picks up is one that was taken of the two of us outside my apartment building on the day I let him walk me home.
He studies the image—the two of us caught mid-conversation, my hand briefly touching his arm as we talked.Seeing us on glossy paper feels indecent, like someone photographed a confession neither of us has voiced.The angle suggests someone across the street, probably using a telephoto lens.
“They’ve been watching us for days,” he says grimly.
“At least.And this one—” I point to another photo showing him entering his office building “—could have been taken any morning.They’re establishing a pattern, showing us they know our routines.”
There are two troubling aspects to these photographs.First, I should’ve been aware of surveillance.Second, that means someone has been aware of us since the beginning of the assignment.
