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Let’s face it.

I didn’t take the gig to make his death easier for him. I took it to make it easier for me.

Because I don’t want to live in a world without him. Because if I’m charge of when he dies, I can savor every day he’s allowed to live.

Because if I’m charge of his death, at least I can do it my way.

Send him to the afterlife with love and kindness and plenty of orgasms.

It’s a real philosophical hinge point. But it’s ultimately irrelevant to Camille’s intentions.

If she really is here to keep the information hidden, I should cut her loose and let her run off with the laptop.

“How do I know you’re here to destroy that?” I ask. “And not turn it into DGSE.” The French version of the CIA. If that’s what she really does.

“You don’t,” she says.

I fold my hands in my lap, cross my legs, and lean in like we are old friends. “Are you going to tell him you’re on his team too?”

“Of course. That’s the smart play,” she says. “He knows me as an ally. Why would I ruin that?”

I can’t help but laugh. She’s strategic.

She offers me a little more rope to hang her. “Check my phone. You can see the message from my handler.” She offers a six-digit number.

I stand, move around the chair, unlock the phone with her thumbprint, and scan the messaging app.

There, in the fake period tracker, is a message from her handler, who is only labeled Handler.

Capture laptop belonging to Yorgos. Bring it back to HQ. If that isn’t possible, destroy it. Avoid Moriarty and Locke if possible. If you engage, shoot to kill. Both are highly dangerous.

Destruction is an option.

That’s promising, but it doesn’t suggest any particular allegiance.

And the message could be planted. She could have one that suggests she’s on Matteo’s side in a different app.

I set her phone on the table and let it go back to sleep.

She scans the kitchen again, noting the knives in the block, the heavy cast iron pan on the stove.

“What is your end game, Madame Moriarty?” she asks, in a voice low enough to pass for a whisper.

I move a little closer.

“Are you here to help him or kill him?” she asks, a little more softly.

My stomach flip-flops. Her voice might carry to the bedroom.

He might hear it.

Of course, he’s considered it.

But a potential colleague saying the words out loud is different.

“Damn amie, for a spy you have a terrible poker face.” She shakes her head how are you going to convince him like that?

She’s right.