Every day.
And somehow, that truth had cracked something open. Hope, maybe.
Now three months into their relationship, Alan stood in the hallway of the Renaissance Hotel, fourteenth floor, key card in hand. The text had come three hours ago:
Sophia
Suite 1412. I’ll leave the door unlocked. Please come.
Three months of careful messages. Three months of pretending the loneliness was just part of the game. Three months of telling himself he was simply cultivating an asset—a CIA analyst with access to Vice President Isaac White’s travel schedules and security protocols.
He was done pretending.
Sophia was sharp and funny and she pushed back when he tried to charm her. She’d told him about growing up in Seattle, about why she’d joined the agency—because she believed in something bigger than herself. She’d asked him questions that had nothing to do with his cover and everything to do with the man underneath.
What do you dream about? she’d typed once.
A life I used to have, he’d answered.
For once, it hadn’t been a lie.
She wanted him to meet her parents. And for some reason, he’d said yes. Hence, the Seattle location.
Stupid. Reckless. He knew better.
He’d dressed for a date, not an op. Dark button-down, no tie. Good jeans.
Bought flowers.
Found the hotel and made his approach, waited, watched, saw her enter. His heart quickened. He waited more.
Finally headed inside, up to the suite.
The door clicked open at his touch.
Inside, the suite was quiet. A bottle of wine sat on the counter—something red, French, the kind you bring when you want the evening to mean something. Two glasses beside it.
Sophia’s coat was draped over a chair. Her laptop bag sat by the desk. Signs of someone who’d arrived, settled in, waited.
“Sophia?”
No answer.
The bedroom door hung ajar. Light spilled through the gap, and as he stepped closer, a smell lifted—copper and something else.
No—
His hand moved to his weapon before his mind caught up.
He pushed open the bedroom door.
Sophia lay on the bed. Black pants, white oxford—but the shirt wasn’t white anymore. Blood spilled from her throat, the bedding saturated, her skin gray. Her open eyes stared at the ceiling, unseeing.
No.
No, no, no?—
“She asked good questions.” The voice was cultured. Familiar. “I can see why you liked her.”
