Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
T he morning cracked grey and cold over Manhattan.
Marise rose at seven and ordered room service.
She didn’t waste time. No lingering over coffee or admiring the skyline like a tourist. She dressed the same way she always did: careful layers of clothing disguised as style.
A slim skirt, a cream blouse tucked neatly in place, a grey jacket slung over her shoulders. Clean lines, no frills.
Her hair was pulled back into a low knot at the nape of her neck, makeup trimmed down to the essentials—a flick of liner, a touch of gloss. Just enough to enhance and mislead.
With a slim leather folio containing her forged credentials and references under one arm, she left the hotel without a backward glance.
The Langford was only fifteen minutes away by car, and Marise watched every block slip past the window. Memorizing everything.
The brownstone was exactly as she’d left it: discreet, polished, invisible to anyone who wasn’t looking for it.
Elise Berry was waiting inside the door, her expression professional but friendly.
"Ms. Hale. Follow me."
No small talk. Perfect.
Marise trailed her down a short hallway into what looked like a private lounge—leather chairs, heavy velvet curtains, with a small corner set up with photography lights.
It was tasteful and quiet with no security cameras she could spot. A woman in her thirties, an attractive African American, rose from one of the chairs and crossed the room to greet her.
“This is Valerie Cousins,” Elise said. “She’ll conduct your interview."
Valerie’s handshake was firm, businesslike. Marise liked her immediately.
“Documents first,” Valerie said, motioning to a table.
Marise dropped the leather folio onto the glass and flipped it open, laying out the paperwork one sheet at a time.
An Environmental Science degree, a little worn at the edges to be plausible.
Letters of recommendation from employers who didn’t exist. A résumé tailored for maximum ambiguity, polished enough to impress, vague enough to evade questions.
Valerie leafed through it without changing expression. "Good," she said, setting the papers aside.
Marise only smiled slightly to let her know she wasn’t going to fawn to get the job.
“You prefer female clients?" Valerie asked next.
"Yes." Marise said baldly. “More interesting company.”
Valerie arched one brow but nodded. "Most of our candidates won’t say it aloud. You’ll do well here."
The photo session was next, fast and efficient. The photographer snapped a series of formal shots, then a few relaxed poses. Marise knew how to angle her body, how to tilt her mouth into a smile that hinted at secrets but offered no entry. She didn’t need coaching.
She didn’t need direction.
The camera loved her.
Valerie checked the digital proofs, made a few quiet notes, then turned back. "You’re booked for an assignment tomorrow night. It’s a dinner date with a regular client. If you make a good impression, you’ll be cleared for the bigger contracts."
Marise inclined her head once in acknowledgment. No fake excitement or gratitude. They were doing business, not charity.
Valerie handed her a printed schedule. "Stay available. We’ll call if anything changes."
Without another word, Marise pocketed the papers and left. She didn’t rush back to the hotel. Instead, she walked. Manhattan swirled around her: cab horns, sirens, shouts, the stench of wet concrete and exhaust. It was alive. Breathing. Chaotic.
She threaded through it all like smoke, invisible when she wanted to be.
She passed Gramercy Park’s locked gates, detoured through the side streets where brownstones wore their ivy like old battle scars, then cut up through Madison Avenue. The the storefronts glittered with the kind of wealth that reeked of power.
Always have a cover story.
The salesgirl smiled at her. Marise smiled back. Nothing about her smile suggested how fast she could break the girl’s wrist if she needed to.
She wandered further uptown, memorizing the faces, the security cameras, the rhythm of patrol cars. Not because she was paranoid, but because it was survival.
When she finally circled back to the Alderidge, the sun was high against the buildings, throwing long jagged shadows across the sidewalks.
She rode the elevator up to the thirty-third floor, keyed into her suite, and dead-bolted the door behind her with three quick movements.
She checked the room: no disturbances or signs of entry.
She peeled off her coat, kicked off her boots, and stretched across the bed, still dressed. For a long moment, she stared up at the ceiling, letting the hum of the city fill the edges of her mind.
Soon she’d be close enough to Kathleen Knowles to read the truth in her voice, her face, her body language.
And once she had it, knew exactly what Knowles was doing, she could go back to Boston.
W ednesday night settled over Manhattan in a rush of twinkling light and sirens. Marise dressed with more care than usual, aware first impressions at the Langford mattered. Fail this, and the real prize, Kathleen Knowles, would drift out of reach.
She chose a dark teal wrap dress that clung to her curves but kept her covered where it mattered. Elegant heels, a small silver pendant at her throat. Her hair she left loose, tumbling over her shoulders in soft, controlled waves. Approachable but expensive. That was the brief.
The restaurant was tucked away off a quiet street in Midtown, behind a plain black awning and a scattering of outdoor tables lit by small flickering candles.
Discretion was the currency here. No crowds, no noise, just excellent food and the kind of atmosphere that invited secrets, and where you were anonymous.
Marise arrived first. The hostess, who clearly recognized the agency's clients, ushered her to a corner table without comment. She ordered a glass of wine and settled in, watching the room with quiet detachment.
Five minutes later, her client arrived.
She was a handsome woman in her early fifties, wearing a simple but costly black dress and a string of pearls. Her hair, a glossy ash-blonde, was swept back into a French twist. She carried herself with the crisp, defensive elegance of a woman used to being admired, but also ignored.
"Veronica?" she said as she approached, her voice warm but cautious.
Marise stood, offering her hand. "Yes. You must be Mrs. Halloway."
"Please," the woman said with a small smile and took her hand. "Call me Irene."
Marise smiled back, giving enough warmth to set the tone. "Irene. It's lovely to meet you."
They sat, the clink of glasses and low voices filling the air around them. The waiter appeared and disappeared with professional silence, taking their orders—fresh seafood, crisp salads, a bottle of white wine recommended by the house.
The conversation began carefully with the usual small talk: the weather, the city, travel. Marise realized within ten minutes that Irene was lonely. Not just bored, truly aching for someone to listen without judgment.
"I’m not very good at these things," Irene confessed, swirling her wine glass. "Making conversation with strangers."
Marise smiled, setting down her fork. "You’re not speaking to a stranger. You’re speaking to someone who’s genuinely interested."
The tension in Irene's shoulders eased slightly.
From there, the conversation flowed more easily. Irene spoke about her travels—Paris, Milan, Athens—her voice lighting up when she mentioned the ruins of Delphi and the streets of Florence at night. She spoke of her husband, too, though not often, and never with anything resembling affection.
"He's a good man," she said at one point, her eyes distant. "In the ways that matter to banks."
Marise said nothing, only offered an understanding smile. It was not her place to judge. She had to be whatever Irene needed tonight, and she was feeling genuinely sorry for the woman. She knew what it was like to be lonely. Marise was thirty-five and had been alone since she was seventeen.
They dined slowly, savouring the cheese platters, grilled octopus, lamb skewers. The wine rounded Irene’s edges. Her laughter grew warmer, her glances lingered longer.
It was an uncomplicated night, easier than most Marise had endured. No awkward silences. No heavy-handed attempts at control. Irene was simply a woman who wanted to be seen.
As the plates were cleared and a third glass of wine arrived, Irene reached across the table, her fingers brushing lightly over Marise’s hand. "You know," she said, her voice dropping a little, "I have an apartment not far from here. If you’re not in a rush…"
Marise lifted her gaze, meeting Irene’s with a slow, almost regretful smile. "That’s a lovely invitation," she said warmly, turning her hand enough to squeeze Irene’s fingers gently. "But I’m afraid I have an early appointment tomorrow morning. I’d hate to be bad company for you later tonight."
Irene flushed slightly, withdrawing her hand with a soft laugh that carried no real hurt.
"You’re very polite, Veronica."
"I prefer honest," Marise said lightly. "And I hope you’ll allow me the chance to spend a little more time with you another night when I can give you my full attention."
Irene’s smile deepened, touched with something like gratitude. "That would be nice. It’s been... a long time since I enjoyed myself this much."
They finished their wine slowly, their talk winding back into lighter topics: music, art, places they both dreamed of visiting. When the check came, Irene paid it without hesitation. Outside, the night air was cool, the city lights spinning gold across the wet pavement.
Irene leaned in, brushing her lips against Marise’s cheek in a gesture that could be affection or longing, depending how one wanted to interpret it.
"Goodnight, Veronica."
"Goodnight, Irene."
Marise watched her walk away, heels clicking against the sidewalk, head held a little higher than when she’d arrived.
As she turned toward the waiting car, and slid back into the anonymity of the night, Marise allowed herself the smallest twinge of regret.
She had liked Irene and the woman deserved some comfort in her life.
Any other time, she would have spent the night with her. She knew how it felt not to be noticed.
But this had been a test, and she was expected to abide by the agency’s rules.