Page 4

“What can I get you?” she asked.

“Eggs over easy, wheat toast, side of fruit if you have it,” I said, keeping my order simple. “And more coffee when you have a chance.”

She scribbled on the piece of paper without looking up. “Coming right up.”

As she walked away, I pulled the burner phone from my pocket. The temptation to check Cain’s social media accounts again was overwhelming, but I resisted. Each search was a potential breadcrumb, and breadcrumbs led to trails, and trails led to people who wanted to find me.

Instead, I pulled up a map of Delaware, studying the roads and towns surrounding Bellweather. I needed an exit strategy because I needed something more concrete than a bus ticket and a prayer. My food arrived with surprising speed. The eggs were perfectly cooked and the toast slightly burnt around the edges. I didn’t realize how hungry I was until I basically inhaled the food without taking a break to breathe.

The waitress returned with the coffee pot and refilled my mug without a word. I quietly thanked her and watched her head back to stand behind the counter. The diner had a small television mounted in the corner that I turned my attention to. I hadn’t paid attention to it before, but now I noticed the morning news program playing silently with captions scrolling across the bottom.

I took another sip of coffee as I watched a meteorologist talk about the weather for the next five days. The weather report faded as the anchor’s face appeared and I nearly leapt from my seat when I saw “Ashcroft Group Announces Expansion Plans” scroll across in bold text. My coffee mug froze halfway to my lips as I tried to process what I was seeing.

I strained to read the closed captioning, but it was difficult because my heart was hammering against my ribs.

“Billionaire investor Cain Ashcroft has announced new expansion plans for his global financial services company,” the caption said.

This wasn’t how I expected to confirm that Cain was still roaming this planet, but I couldn’t complain because it was a useful piece of information. It also confirmed that I hadn’t killed the most infuriating man on earth.

And that was both a blessing and a curse.

3

CAIN

The Scotch in my hand swirled lazily around the crystal tumbler, catching the light streaming in from the setting sun as the lights that would brighten Manhattan’s skyline began to turn on. I watched the amber liquid settle before bringing the glass to my lips and enjoyed the burn as it slid down my throat. The cut above my temple throbbed as I swallowed and I was once again reminded of Sutton Prescott’s particular brand of gratitude.

Three days. She’d been running for three days, and I’d known exactly where she was for every second of all of them.

The file on my desktop contained photographic and visual evidence of her journey to “escape” from the consequences of her actions. The first photo showed her boarding a bus in the rain with her head down and her shoulders practically up to her ears. She’d chosen a seat near the back, which wasn’t a surprise especially for someone who wanted to have eyes on the scene before them. I’d had a woman on the bus, who blended perfectly into the background, sending me updates every thirty minutes.

A video captured Sutton at an ATM as she withdrew cash to fund this expedition, but it was a rookie mistake. Every transaction left a digital trail, and I knew that we both had reached the same conclusion because I could see the tension in her jaw as she’d realized her error seconds after making it.

The next image showed her at the first motel thanks to Declan’s operative who had secured the room on the other end of the L-shaped building and captured Sutton through a telephoto lens as she’d dragged a chair to wedge beneath the door handle. The gesture was almost endearing in its futility. She’d tried so hard to build walls, not realizing the walls had eyes and had been watching her the entire time.

I set the tumbler down on the glass surface of my desk and used my mouse to flip to the next photograph. It was an image of Sutton at Betsy’s Diner, sitting in a vinyl booth with her back against the wall, with her baseball cap pulled low and she was also wearing her sunglasses indoors like some second-rate spy movie. The waitress in the faded yellow uniform had been another operative, not that Sutton had any way of knowing that. The eggs over easy, wheat toast, side of fruit, her two cups of coffee, was all documented and put into this file.

The detail that amused me most was the sunglasses. She’d kept them on the entire time she sat in that booth, as if tinted lenses were sufficient camouflage against me, the person who had been indirectly watching her every move since she stepped off that bus. I’d reviewed the operative’s notes several times, not because I needed to, but because there was something enticing about watching Sutton Prescott try to disappear.

She was decent at it.

But I was better.

The second motel had been a smart pivot. Moving within the first twenty-four hours was another example of how smart she was because many people in her position wouldn’t have thought to move because they thought they couldn’t be found. Most people wanted to stay still when they were frightened. Sutton had understood, even after everything that had happened, that stillness was a luxury she couldn’t afford.

I could have swooped in with my team and brought all of this to an end immediately, but I was curious to see how far all of this would go. I leaned back in my chair and let my gaze drift from the monitor to the skyline that made this view more than worth the money I dropped on this place. The sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving behind streaks of deep orange and purple as the city was transitioning from day to night. Somewhere in a ninety-five-dollar motel room in Delaware, Sutton might have been watching the sky do the same.

She didn’t know it yet, but this was the most important period of her life. The woman who had swung a paperweight at my skull was not the same woman who would emerge from this self-imposed exile. I intended to be there for the entire transformation. It was mine to witness, to shape, and to own.

My phone buzzed against the desk. I glanced at the screen: Declan.

“Update,” I said without giving him a greeting.

“She is thinking about moving again tomorrow. Early. The operative at the diner overheard her asking about bus schedules and rental car agencies.”

“Which direction?” I asked.

“South. She was looking at routes toward Maryland. The operative said she was looking at roads that avoided I-95.”