"They knew we were here ten minutes ago," I said. "Now they know we're armed."
I picked up the suitcase. It was heavy with paper and anxiety.
"We have to move, Quill. Where there's one scout, there's a pair at the very least, but more likely a squad. Juno is two minutes out."
I held out my hand.
"We do it your way from here," I offered. "Service elevator. Laundry room. Delivery truck cover."
She looked at my hand. It was scarred, large, and still dusted with the plastic shards of the memory card.
"It's messy," she said.
"Life is messy," I replied. "Come on. Let's get your hole punch to safety."
She let out a short, dry laugh, a sound of pure stress releasing. She took my hand. Her palm was cool, her grip firm.
"Fine," she said. "But if I lose the three-hole punch in the alley, I'm billing you."
"Understood."
I opened the door. I checked the hall. Clear.
"Move out," I ordered.
Rowan moved. She didn't look small anymore. She looked like a woman who was learning that sometimes, having a monster at the door wasn't the worst thing in the world. Sometimes, it was the only way to get the door open.
SIX
Rowan
The safehouse was a tomb of glass and polished concrete, and the silence inside was loud enough to echo inside my mind. A static that was only noticeable when there was no other noise to counter it.
I had been in the guest room laying on the bed staring at the ceiling for exactly forty-two minutes, and all I could think about is how the sheets I'm on are both the softest and most irritating I've ever experienced in my life. My body was exhausted in a way I hadn't experienced in a long time. I was a heavy, leaden thing sinking into the Egyptian cotton, but my brain was running a marathon on a treadmill of broken glass.
Vance. The clip. The bank accounts. My mother’s house.
The list scrolled behind my eyelids like a ticker tape of catastrophe. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the comments.Traitor. Frigid. Bitch. Stay in your lane. Worthless designation.
I neededsomething. I needed a problem I could actually solve.
Finally, at 1:00 AM, I gave up on the concept of rest.
I slipped out of the room, moving like a ghost through the shadowy corridors. I found the kitchen by the ambient humof the sub-zero refrigerator. It was a chef’s kitchen, sleek and intimidating, designed for people who cooked as a performance art rather than a necessity or to actually enjoy food.
I opened the pantry door.
"Oh, god," I breathed, the first spark of genuine dopamine hitting my brain in twenty-four hours.
It was anarchy. Expensive, high-end anarchy. There was truffle oil next to the dish soap. The dry pasta was mingled with the baking supplies. Cans of tomatoes were stacked precariously on top of boxes of herbal tea. It was a logistical nightmare. It was a safety hazard.
It was perfect.
I went back to my suitcase, retrieved my label maker and went to work.
For the next hour and a half, I wasn't a disgraced manager or a target. I was an architect of order.
Click-click-whirrt.
