One week of working together, and I couldn't stop noticing.
Monday, she'd arrived looking like she'd stepped out of a fashion magazine. Professional but stunning. The entire morning I'd caught myself staring.
Tuesday, we'd worked late reviewing contracts. Around 8 p.m., she'd kicked off her heels under the desk, curled her feet under her. That small gesture—the informality, the comfort—had done something to me.
Wednesday, I'd made a joke about her terrible coffee-making skills. She'd thrown a balled-up Post-it note at my head. The playfulness felt dangerous. Like crossing a line.
Thursday, she'd stayed even later. I'd ordered dinner. We'd eaten Thai food in my office, talking about everything except work. Her favorite books. Places she wanted to travel. How she'd always wanted to fly a plane.
I'd told her about my Cessna. Offered to teach her.
The moment the words left my mouth, I knew I'd crossed a boundary.
But I didn't take them back.
Friday—now—I was watching her say goodbye to Barbara, and all I could think was:What if Stone is right? What if she's not who she claims?
"You're staring," Stone said quietly.
I pulled my attention back. "I'm observing."
"That what we're calling it?"
"I'm her boss. I'm supposed to observe her performance."
"Performance." Stone's lips thinned. "That's one word for it."
"What did you find?" I kept my voice low. "You've been watching her all week."
"She's good. Too good, maybe." He set down his plate. "She never slips. Never makes a mistake. Never seems uncertain—except when she wants to seem uncertain."
"That's called being competent."
"Or well-trained." Stone crossed his arms. "Her cover story is solid. But Forrest found something interesting."
My pulse kicked. "What?"
"She accesses her personal email exactly three times a day. 8 a.m., noon, and 5 p.m. Like clockwork. Never varies."
"So, she's organized."
"Or she's checking in with someone. Reporting." Stone's sharp gaze picked up everything. "And get this—she never accesses social media. No Instagram, no Facebook, nothing. What forty-something woman doesn't check social media?"
"Maybe she values privacy."
"Or she doesn't have social media because Julia Russell is an alias."
The possibility sat heavy in my chest.
"Anything else?"
"Yeah. She was looking at the secure room yesterday. I caught her on camera studying the keypad. Taking mental notes."
"She's supposed to have access. We gave her the code."
"I know. But the way she looked at it..." Stone shook his head. "Like she was planning something."
"Or memorizing her new responsibilities."
