Knox flushed. “There are ways to make your grievances known that don’t involve breaking the law—”
“Yes, let’s talk about them,” Clearwater interrupted. “Voting, social media, speaking out—none of those avenues have produced the change people want. And that’s because our decision makers are either in thepocketsof the powerful, or the powerful themselves, which means they’re invested in keeping things the way they are. Can you blame Scout Sage for allegedly resorting to more drastic actions? Frankly, we’re past due.”
“Representative Knox,” said the news anchor, “why don’t you—”
“Here come the personal attacks,” interrupted Knox. He tapped his watch. “You know, I’ve never had a single debate with Ms. Clearwaterwhere she hasn’t resorted to insulting me. Haven’t you heard that’s the sign of a weak argument?”
There was a noticeable tick in the woman’s jaw before she too turned to face the camera head-on. “Representative Knox might look like a normal man on TV, but let me assure everyone watching that he is, in fact, a monster.”
Jesus.Juliet had never heard anyone talk like that on the news. She pulled the screen closer, ignoring the sweat rolling down her face and chest.
“And if Knox were to be elected president,” she continued, “he’d usher in a new Dark Age.”
“Ms. Clearwater, please remember to keep it civil,” urged the anchor.
Knox chuckled. “Tread carefully, Ms. Clearwater. The Green Lions benefit from federal funding like every other nonprofit. That’s not a very kind way to talk about a man whose appropriations committee keeps you afloat.”
Juliet drew in a sharp breath at the look on Clearwater’s face: There was barely restrained fire in her eyes, as if she contained something much bigger than hate. “You can’t intimidate me, Mr. Knox. I have truth and the long arc of justice on my side.”
The video cut and rolled onto the next, but Juliet swiped out of the app.
She’d never seen anyone that fearless. Luca Clearwater was in a different league.
She googled “Luca Clearwater” and a link for her organization, the Green Lions, popped up. Juliet was surprised to be taken to a spare white website. A beautifully illustrated green lion materialized on screen, below a golden sun, the image like something from a fairy tale. The lion lifted its head and roared, and slowly, the sun lowered toward it—until the lion unhinged its jaws and swallowed it whole.
Text appeared at the bottom like magic ink, one word after the other. “A green lion devouring the sun is an ancient alchemical symbol for transformation. Like the work of alchemists, elevating raw nature into a more refined state, the Green Lions seek to evolve humanity away from the traits, instincts, and behaviors that no longer serve us.”
A link emerged for a Contact page, and that was it—the entirety of the website. Juliet’s heart was still pounding, heat and sweat pouring out of her, but she made herself do it before she chickened out. She typed her information into the Contact box and began her message:
“Dear Ms. Clearwater, I’m taking a risk writing to you, but I think it could be worth it. I belong to a group of women whose name you might recognize…”
Chapter 26Grey, the Detective
PRESENT DAY
For once, Grey was content to lose herself in the frenetic rhythms of Saturday service at the Serpent Room. It had been a long, grueling week—Rosie Wright, the journalist who’d broken the story on Scout, had been found dead, andThe New York Timesrefused to tell Grey what Wright had been working on, citing the First Amendment. Public attention to the Sage case was escalating by the day, reporters calling the department for statements every hour and fake tipsters every five minutes until all the phone lines had jammed up and Captain Xie had come out of his office roaring.
The captain was breathing down her neck, warning her not to make a single misstep, and now, on top of everything, the FBI had thrust itself into her investigation, led by Special Agent Brooks Yardley, a man so handsome she’d had to look up his background to make sure he wasn’t some male escort hired by Fasiano and the others to give her a hard time. And that was when the unease she felt around Yardley clicked: She recognized his name from Georgia Sage’s case file. Yardley had been on the witness list ten years ago. He’d been Isabel Cruz’s boyfriend, even briefly considered a suspect. He’d attended the infamous Christmas party. He had a relationship with her suspect.
Grey had raised the conflict to the FBI immediately, but they’d come back and said Yardley was an exemplary agent who swore he hadn’t crossed paths with Sage in a decade. It was boys’ club bullshit. Since Grey couldn’t trust Yardley farther than she could throw him, it meant the FBI wasn’t an asset to her, they were yet another liability. Another headache.
But tonight, for one all-hell’s-broken-loose Saturday night, Grey was going to focus on slinging drinks, clearing tables, and palming tips. It would practically be a vacation.
“I need two bottles of the welcome Dom for table eight,” she called to Nico, the bartender, sliding up to the bar and punching in the order. “And if you could give me the old brand of sparklers, I’d appreciate it. The new brand almost lit my hair on fire. The sparks are so chaotic it’s a public safety hazard.”
Grey bit her lip, regretting how easily cop lingo likepublic safety hazardslid into her vocabulary. The whole point of being undercover at the Serpent was to present herself as a safe, non-law-enforcement presence the staff could confide in.
Luckily, the bartender was moving fast, quartering limes and wedging them onto shots of tequila, and didn’t seem to catch it. “You got it,” he said, sliding the tray of shots to another girl, Keisha, who waved her thanks.
Grey was relieved to see Nico behind the bar. He was older, probably early forties, and a pro, by far the most skilled bartender at the Serpent—way better than Anders, the twentysomething who spent half his time trying to flirt. Nico seemed nice enough, but when it came to men, Grey was always waiting for the other shoe to drop. Call it a hazard of the job.
Nico looked up, a grin splitting his pale face. His full name was Nicolae Kovalenko and he was Eastern European, or so she’d heard. She’d managed to sneak into the manager’s office a handful of times to search his paperwork, but she’d never found Nico’s employment file to corroborate. “I think John bought the discount sparklers in a sad attempt to save a few bucks,” the bartender confessed. “The label on the box says, ‘Warning: May or May Not Ignite.’”
“Oh, they ignite all right.” Grey raised her eyebrows, and the warmth of Nico’s laughter caught her off guard. She smiled back.
He braced his hands on the bar, eyeing her. “You know, when you smile, you look so much like her.”
Grey’s heart stuttered to a stop.
