“You owe me.”
Penelope smiled. “Gladly.”
When the call ended, Penelope dropped back against the couch cushion. The quiet of her apartment pressed in, sharpening every sound—the hum of the refrigerator, the ticking clock, Fuller’s tail brushing her leg.
She had done the right thing. If she wanted to have a chance at defending herself, she needed to know what was coming. That way, she could stay one step ahead of Montgomery.
It still didn’t erase the sensation of dread mixed with guilt. She wasn’t keeping this from Lucia because she didn’t trust her or didn’t want her to know. Lucia had so much on her plate now, and she truly couldn’t help. Yet, all Penelope could picture were her sad eyes, and the way she’d say, “Oh, OK. I understand.” And absorb another hit.
Penelope vowed to tell her as soon as she knew more from Jules, no matter what she found during her search of the Meridian’s files.
All of this also brought her thoughts back to her father once again—to the day of the verdict and how he’d told her, “It’s all right. We’ll get through this.” And then, “Don’t worry about that,” when she’d told him it wasn’t fair and that they should appeal his conviction.
He’d refused. Now she understood why. Maybe he’d already made peace with the guilt before the gavel ever fell.
With a sigh, Penelope rose and ambled to her computer. She needed to clean up her notes at work, making sure everything was as it should be for whatever was about to come her way.
Chapter 34
Reckoning
Lucia hadn’t wanted Francesca to come—not because she doubted her ability. Francesca was better in the field than she was, but her emotions around Varnelli were volatile, and that often meant risky calls. Not that she’d phrased it that way.
“Don’t you trust us to handle this?” Lucia had asked, almost cringing because,hello? They’d lost theMadonnaright after stealing it.
“It’s not about that, and you know it. I need to be there.” And that had been it. Once Francesca made up her mind, you’d have better luck shattering granite with your bare hands.
The warehouse sat at the edge of the industrial district, squatting low and wide against the skyline. Even from inside the van, the air smelled of hot asphalt and motor oil, cicadas sawing endlessly in the background.
The area didn’t have too much traffic. Most of the buildings around were either vacant or reduced to low-volume storage. The perfect place to disappear something valuable.
A car honked when Jules braked late at a three-way stop.
“Watch where you’re going!” Skye snapped. “You trying to kill us before we even make it there?”
“Sorry,” Jules muttered. “Total brain fart. Maybe too much caffeine.”
Lucia pressed her forehead against the window. Her jaw ached from clenching. As if their nerves weren’t frayed enough.
Ten minutes later, they rolled into a narrow service lane. They killed the lights, piled out, and followed Francesca’s silent lead. Gravel slid and clicked beneath their soles, uneven andtreacherous, until they reached the concrete apron behind the warehouse.
The building loomed above, a dull-gray monolith humming with the low thrum of AC units. Rust streaked the loading bay doors. Somewhere inside, a fan squeaked on its bearings—rhythmic, like a metronome in the dark.
Francesca’s expression was carved in stone as she strode toward the keypad.
The loading bay was their best shot—security had been rerouted to cover the main office entrance, probably because of the incoming shipment expected at the end of the week.
Lucia’s fingers shook as she typed the six-digit code into the pad. Each beep seemed loud enough to echo.
…Seven. Nine. Three.
A soft click. The lock disengaged.
She let out a slow breath as the door inched open, hinges whining faintly, and they slipped inside.
The air changed immediately—stale, humid, heavy with the scent of dust, cardboard, and something chemical. Their footsteps whispered across concrete as they followed the memorized path, corridors yawning dark on either side.
Lucia and Skye instinctively flanked Francesca, the unspoken pact to guard her more binding than anything else.
