"Hey." Ellie's voice was soft. I looked up to find her watching me, concern evident in the set of her mouth. "You okay?"
I nodded, not trusting my voice. The knife slipped, nicking my finger. A bright bead of blood welled up, startling against the pale flesh of the strawberry.
"Sabine—"
"I'm fine," I said quickly, sucking the small cut. The metallic taste grounded me. "It only hurts a little."
Ellie crossed to me, gently taking my hand to examine the cut. "It's shallow," she said. "But let me clean it."
As she finished applying the bandage to my finger, the front door opened with a soft click. I tensed automatically at the thump of boots on the marble, my fingers pausing over the half-cut strawberry.
Kara appeared in the kitchen doorway, her tall frame filling the space. She wore full tactical gear, a heavy vest that added bulk to her already imposingphysique. The rifle hung across her chest on its strap, her right hand resting casually on the grip.
Alex and I are heading out to check the perimeter,” she said, her voice calm but clipped.
Ellie nodded without turning from the stove. "Got it. Timeline?"
"Standard sweep. Two hours max." Kara's eyes scanned the kitchen before landing on me. "Morning, Sabine. Ankle better today?"
I nodded, surprised by the direct acknowledgment. "Getting there."
"Good. Stay inside, obviously." Her professional tone never wavered, but something in her eyes softened almost imperceptibly. "El, we'll check in on the half-hour."
"Copy that," Ellie replied, flipping another piece of French toast with practiced ease.
Kara turned to leave, then paused. "El, save me some of that. Smells like your grandmother's recipe."
"Always do," Ellie said, a smile in her voice though her back remained to us.
Kara glanced at me again, and this time her right eye closed in a quick, subtle wink before her face resumed its mask of professional detachment. The gesture was so fast I almost thought I'd imagined it.
She disappeared back into the foyer. Moments later, the front door opened and closed again.
I sat with my knife hovering over the strawberry, listening to the sudden quiet of the house. Just Ellie and me now, the soft sizzle of butter in the pan, and the distant sound of a cat purring somewhere in the living room.
Ellie stacked our breakfast dishes in the dishwasher, wiping down the counter with methodical strokes. The scent of cinnamon and maple lingered in the air.
"I need to check the perimeter monitors," she said, tucking a stray loc behind her ear. "You good here for a bit?"
I nodded, watching the way her lips curved into that easy smile. Something fluttered in my chest when she laughed at my lame joke about French toast being the universal language of peace negotiations.
When she left, I realized it was my first time alone downstairs. The silence felt strange after days of constant supervision. I tested my weight on my ankle and made my way through the foyer.
Beyond the staircase, I discovered a great room I hadn't seen before. Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed a solarium that jutted out from the main structure, filled with plants that reached toward the glass ceiling. I pushed open the connecting door and stepped into a wall of humid heat.
The temperature shift was immediate and total. Sweat prickled along my hairline as moisture settled on my skin like a second layer. The air tasted green, if that made any sense—thick with chlorophyll and earth and something sweet I couldn't identify.
Exotic flowers I couldn't name bloomed in riots of color. Purple petals the size of dinner plates cascaded from hanging baskets. Scarlet blooms with waxy leaves clustered near the glass, catching the pale winter light and transforming it into something tropical. Broad-leafed plants created a canopy overhead, their fronds so large they could have sheltered me from rain.
Outside the glass, bare tree branches swayed in what looked like a bitter wind, skeletal fingers clawing at a grey sky. But in here, I could have been in some jungle paradise, miles and continents away from upstate New York in January.
I traced my finger along a leaf as wide as my torso, feeling the smooth waxy surface, the raised veins beneath. My ankle throbbed less in the warmth, the heat loosening something in the joint that had stayed tense and tight since my fall.
Someone had poured considerable time into this space. The plants were too exotic, too meticulously maintained to be accidental. I thought of the poetry volumes in the library, Isabella Bellante's name inscribed inside each one. Had this been her sanctuary too? I couldn't imagine Alex or the tactical team spending evenings misting orchids.
How strange to find this lush paradise inside a fortress designed to house killers.
Back in the great room, I scanned the built-in bookshelves. My fingers trailed across leather spines until I found a worn copy of Les Misérables. I pulled itfree, considering. Rebecca waited upstairs on my nightstand, but the thought of climbing those stairs made my ankle throb in anticipation.
