“We’ll do what we have to,” he says solemnly. “No one said this was going to be easy, Ms. Beaumont. For now I’ll work on tracing some of their shell companies and offshore accounts. You need to find a trustworthy judge who isn’t in their pockets. Someone guaranteed to work fast and sign off on warrants when we need to make arrests. Are you prepared to represent the state in court? Once we present the evidence to a grand jury, it should be easy enough to secure indictments. It’s the getting them there that’s hard.”
“I understand. And I already have a judge in mind.”
“Good.”
We discuss some other parts of the case for another half an hour before Fadden’s phone starts to vibrate. He brings it out and shoots me an apologetic look.
“Sorry, duty calls,” he states, returning the phone to his pocket and rising. “It was good talking to you, Ms. Beaumont. I’m glad we ran into each other.”
“I’m glad we ran into each other too.” I smile. “And you can call me Lindsay.”
He’s actually not that bad, and the meeting has shown me how good he is at his job. It’s not often you meet someone with strong convictions about what we’re doing.
“Alright, Lindsay,” he says softly. “I’ll see you on Monday and then we can fine-tune our game plan.”
“Yeah. Bye, Agent Fadden.”
He shakes his head. “Edward. And thanks for the book.”
When he leaves, I’m left alone at the café, sipping my mocha latte with a growing pit in my belly. Because I still haven’t been able to shake the feeling that someone’s watching me. And I know I should be scared. But instead, for some reason, I feel protected. Safe.
After our last meeting, I’m almost sure it’s Matteo Vitale. And I’m not sure how to feel about that.
Red vinyl booths line the walls of the diner, worn just enough to show their age without losing their shape. The lighting is dim, casting everything in a soft glow that makes time feel slower here. A counter runs along the far side, stools tucked neatly beneath it, a few regulars scattered in quiet conversation.
I eat in silence, letting the noise of the place settle around me. Plates clinking, low voices, the steady hum of something ordinary. By the time I’m done eating, the place has thinned out. I stand, pulling my coat on as I step up to the counter.
“The food was fantastic as always, Maria,” I say to the middle-aged woman behind the counter, sliding cash across “A-plus.”
Her brow lifts slightly when she sees the amount, double the price of the food I ordered.
“Honey—”
“Keep it.”
She studies me for a second, then nods. “You take care of yourself, alright?”
“I will,” I assure her.
I’ve been coming to this diner since I was a teenager. It feels just like home. The bell chimes again as I push the door open, the cool night air replacing the warmth behind me. The street is quieter now. Too quiet.
I step onto the sidewalk, my heels clicking softly as I move toward where I parked.
Something’s off. I glance up. Some of the streetlights are out. There’s stretches of shadow between pools of light farther down the block. I slow, just slightly.
It’s nothing. Probably.
My hand tightens around my bag. Then a sound breaks the quiet behind me. Footsteps. Not mine. And not one. I don’t turn. Not yet. I keep moving, pace steady, controlled. The footsteps don’t fade.
They follow. I quicken my steps and so do they. My stomach tightens.
I look ahead, spotting my car. I can make it. I move faster now, heels striking harder against the pavement, breath tightening as adrenaline starts to creep in.
Think, Lindsay. Think.
I reach into my bag, fingers brushing against nothing useful. Not even pepper spray. Fuck.
Too late for that.
