PROLOGUE
Manhattan,New York
Carly Reid studied herself one last time in the bathroom mirror, trying to ignore the lead weight that had taken up residence in her stomach. The navy dress screamed "trustworthy witness." The woman wearing it whispered, "professional liar."
Hard to saywhich one was telling the truth.
She adjustedthe small silver cross at her throat—her one purchase in the last year that hadn't been about the con. That one had been about hope. About the possibility that someone like her could actually be forgiven for a lifetime of calculated deceptions.
And she was so close now. A day away, maybe two, from real freedom for the first time in her life.
One last day as a former con woman and current felon. And one last task.
The woman who walked out of that courthouse wouldn't be the con artist who'd sold forged Monets to multi-millionaires. Wouldn't be the convict who'd served three years before taking a deal. Wouldn't even be the woman who'd spent the last year undercover at Meridian Capital, gathering evidence on the biggest securities fraud case in a decade.
She'd fulfilled her end of the bargain. One year undercover. Evidence gathered. Meridian Capital’s operation dismantled.
Freedom. Finally. Earned, not stolen.
Where she'd go after, she hadn't decided. Maybe Denver. Or Boston. Somewhere big enough to disappear but small enough to feel safe. A city where she could start fresh with a clean record and no one asking questions about her past.
The apartment buzzer made her jump, sloshing coffee onto the navy dress.
"Perfect,"she muttered, dabbing at the stain with a dish towel. "Nothing says 'reformed criminal' like showing up to testimony looking like you lost a fight with a cappuccino."
Eight twenty.Dominic Adler was early. The NYPD Captain who'd become her handler usually rolled in exactly on time with terrible coffee, a disappointed expression that could make hardened criminals weep, and Dad jokes so bad they counted as enhanced interrogation.
She grabbed her purse—contents:tissues, lip gloss, three forms of fake ID she'd forgotten to mention to the NYPD (old habits died hard, apparently died kicking andscreaming), and enough cash to get to Canada if things went sideways.
Not that sheplanned to run.
Probably.
She openedthe door with her best "ready to testify and destroy a criminal empire" smile.
It slid straight offher face.
Dom lookedlike someone had just told him the Knicks had moved to New Jersey. Then moved back. Then disbanded entirely and taken up competitive knitting.
"Sit down, Carly."
"That bad?"Her hand automatically checked for the nearest exits. Window to the fire escape. Back door through the bedroom. Front door currently blocked by one large, grim-looking detective who'd somehow gotten paler since yesterday, which she hadn't thought was physically possible.
"Someone got to our witness.Schlenkman's dead."
The words didn't compute.
She'd spent a year undercover, gathering evidence on Roger Schlenkman's securities fraud operation. A year of pretending to be a financial analyst while actually being a former criminal playing a reformed criminal pretending to be a criminal again.
Dom moved to the window,checking the street with the paranoia of someone who'd survived thirty years in the NYPD by assuming everyone was out to get him. Turns out he'd been right.
"Execution-style.Right in his cell. With a full contingent of guards who all mysteriously went for coffee at the same time."
"But the trial—"
Her head hurt just thinkingabout the layers.
"Derivatives,"she breathed. "I learned about derivatives for this. Do you know how boring derivatives are? They're like if math and sadness had a baby."
