Chapter 30
Chapter
Thirty
GRACE
peeled off my coat in the back of the van and let the team’s low chatter fill the small space like static.
The windows were fogged from the heat, the traffic a little stop and go on our way to Sinclair’s place in McLean.
My hands moved without thinking, redoing my hair to pull it into a tight knot.
I shimmied out of the skirt, swapping it for slacks that Am would have loved, tailored with clean lines and excellent pockets.
Goblin stared at me, tongue lolling out as I switched out the button-down blouse for a slightly looser, but no less professional one. It was more casual professional, than smart and sober professional. I paused to scratch Goblin between the ears and his tail thumped.
Petting him settled me as much as it made him happy. I swapped the lipstick for gloss. In the mirror of my compact I checked the line at the corner of my mouth and the hard set of my jaw. The face staring back didn’t feel like mine. It was sharper. It was Am. It made me miss her so much.
Bones glanced back from the passenger seat, his expression measuring. “You remember everything for step two or do we need to go over it again?”
We weren’t improvising anymore. We were executing.
I stuffed the sensible heels into the bag with my other discarded clothes.
For a moment, a waft of the Am’s favorite perfume all citrus and heat came up as I zipped the bag closed.
I breathed it in and let it comfort me even as I readied myself for what was next.
“I remember,” I said, proud of how steady I sounded. It was one thing to suspect her boss and her firm, it was completely something else to have it confirmed.
Legend’s quiet voice threaded through the comms then: “Sinclair didn’t head to the firm.
He went to a hotel in the city—The Whitcomb.
Went straight up to a room he already had a key for.
He’s on the phone. Looks like he’s meeting someone.
Still talking fast.” There was a crackle of static and then, softer, “He’s pacing near the window. Probably trying to buy time.”
McLean was still the objective. His estate housed safe boxes and three different servers—AB had mapped them all—and whatever he kept close to his chest would be there.
If Sinclair was meeting someone in DC, it only made the estate quieter.
Easier to work undisturbed. Easier to let Legend watch the hotel and catch whatever crossed the city between Sinclair and his ghosts.
“Keep him on feed,” Bones said. “Legend, you stay with him. If he takes a piss, you should be close enough to give him a hand.”
When I made a face, Voodoo grinned then winked at me. Some of the armor plating around me softened. I was safe here. Safe with them.
“Alphabet,” Bones continued, “you’re on external cams at the estate. Voodoo, you’ve got the locks and we need to be ready for any forgery checks. We get what we need, then we take care of him.”
Forgery checks. “Do you really think he’ll have high end art and other valuables?”
“Yes,” Voodoo answered before Bones could. “Using art, gold, and diamonds—it’s a way to keep money clean and to pay for transactions you don’t want the government looking at.”
“What about his wife? Is she still out of town?” That was another sticking point.
Sinclair had a Mrs. Sinclair. No children of his own.
That was good. But I couldn’t remember Am ever mentioning the wife.
To be fair, I didn’t really remember my sister talking about most of the lawyers she worked with in particular.
She took confidentiality very seriously.
Didn’t stop her from telling me stories, but they’d always had the names redacted.
“I think she’s dead,” AB said, surprising me and I wasn’t the only one who snapped a look toward him.
“I don’t have any proof and I haven’t been able to track any reports of her demise or what could have been done with her body, but she’s been ‘missing’ for months.
First it was a trip, then a cruise, then visiting ‘friends.’”
All of which could be reasonable.
“But there are no calls home, no emails, no photographs from these various destinations. The people she allegedly traveled with do not exist or if they do, they come across more as paid actors than anything else.” AB ticked each item off in a cool, rational voice that said he’d dug down.
The van hummed through the outskirts and the map on Legend’s feed pulsed: Sinclair at The Whitcomb, phone to his ear, a shadow of a hand sweeping across a hotel room window.
Voodoo tapped my foot with his and I reached for the flats to put them on. I needed to look like I worked in the office, it was part of the plan to get in. But I also needed to be able to move.
We took the exit toward McLean. The trees loomed taller here, estates folding into one another like secrets.
Bones’ voice was clipped. “We’re approaching the house,” Bones said for Legend’s benefit.
“Once we’re there, Grace takes point to get inside.
Lunchbox, you stick with Sinclair, if he moves, alert us. ”
“If he heads for the house?” Legend’s question wasn’t an unreasonable one.
A beat of silence as Bones twisted to look back at me. All I did was raise my eyebrows. I wanted the man to show up. I was ready to ask him all the questions.
“Let him. We’ll take care of him once he’s here.” Bones glanced ahead once more.
I blew out a long breath, both relieved and exhilarated. Yet, the tension inside of me coiled inexorably tighter. We were close. But how close? As close as it felt, it also felt like a million miles still separated us.
The steel gray skies had darkened in the near hour long drive it had taken us in traffic to get from Alexandria to McLean. When Voodoo held out a hand, I slid mine into his and let him tug me from my seat to the one next to him. We were almost there.
“You’re cold,” he said, trying to warm my hand with his.
“Not really feeling it at the moment,” I admitted.
“Two minutes,” AB warned. The traffic sounds had grown considerably quieter after leaving the highway. From what I could see out the front, we were entering the very affluent area Sinclair called home.
We were almost there.
The van eased to a smooth, quiet stop on the edge of the circular drive—close enough to be expected, far enough to seem like we weren’t desperate to make a scene.
The house loomed in front of me, three stories of stone and old money arrogance, with a steep gabled roof, black iron fixtures, and enough carefully trimmed hedges to make Versailles jealous.
Just another Thursday in McLean.
I stepped out of the driver’s seat, tugging the strap of my bag higher on my shoulder.
From the outside, we looked like a very tidy scene: a clean, newer-model van that could belong to a realtor, a consultant, or—if you were a little sleep-deprived and had the wrong glasses prescription—a well-dressed soccer mom. Very subtle. Very boring.
Perfect.
I didn’t glance at the trees. Didn’t check my watch. Voodoo and Bones had gotten out a quarter mile back, disappearing into the thicket that surrounded the estate like it had something to hide. I knew they were on foot, getting into position to sweep the grounds once I opened the door.
“Comms check,” Bones murmured.
“Loud and clear,” I whispered, and clicked the clasp on my bag.
The walk to the door was measured and confident—Amorette Black, no nonsense, no nerves. By the time I reached the oversized double doors, I’d gone still inside, like someone had flipped a switch and all the noise in my head had gone dark.
I knocked once, firm but polite. The sound echoed.
Thirty seconds passed.
Then the door opened.
The woman who answered was in her mid-fifties, maybe older, wearing a muted floral blouse with dark slacks. She looked startled to see me—properly startled, like I’d just materialized on her front step instead of walked up to it. Her mouth opened, and she said something in rapid-fire Spanish.
"?Pero qué haces aquí tú solita? No me dijo que venía nadie—"
Then her expression shifted, and she corrected herself quickly, her words slipping into English like a practiced code-switch. “Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot you don’t speak Spanish.”
I tilted my head, just a fraction, offering the exact kind of self-effacing smile Amorette might’ve used when someone spilled wine on her heels.
“No worries,” I said lightly. “I’m so sorry to bother you this afternoon. I was just with Mark in court down in Alexandria, and of course he forgot some files. Then he had to go straight to the Whitcomb and asked me to stop by here and grab a few things.”
The woman’s shoulders relaxed with that specific weariness I recognized in service workers who’d done this dance a thousand times.
“Of course he did,” she muttered, then caught herself again. “No, I mean—yes, come in, of course. I remember you from before, you’ve been here, yes?”
I nodded like it was the most natural thing in the world. “A couple of times, yes. I’m just here for the files. He said they’d probably be in the study, or maybe the upstairs office?”
She made a soft sound of sympathy and stepped aside. The door clicked shut behind me as I crossed the threshold and took in the house.
Inside, it was warm—too warm. The kind of curated comfort that tried a little too hard to be welcoming. The walls were all creamy whites and soft lighting, with tasteful art, thick rugs, and furniture that had never been sat on by anything less than a well-dressed donor or a discreet mistress.
“We had a cleaning team through yesterday,” the housekeeper said as she led me forward. “Everything should be in place, but if anything is out of order, I apologize. Mr. Sinclair can be… unpredictable.”
“Oh, trust me,” I murmured, smiling. “I know.”
“Status?” Bones asked in my ear.
“I’m in,” I murmured, following the woman deeper into the house. “Main hall. No signs of other staff yet.”