Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Adrien
I’ve never been the man who checks his phone every five minutes. Yet here I am, watching the screen like it keeps my future under glass. What the hell is this woman doing to me?
Any sane man would be concerned. She slipped a loaded handgun into her backpack this morning. “Precautionary,” she said. As if the word could blunt the image of cold steel against her palm.
The great irony is I’m the client. I’m the one she’s technically working for. She’s also the reason I haven’t fired Eddie, locked down The Sanctuary, and walked away. Well, that—and I do owe the senator enough to at least give them a chance to trace the blackmailer.
Still, the more I replay what Brie’s told me, the clearer it becomes: her organization cares more about exposing whoever trades secrets than the ones buying them.
When I discussed this with the senator this morning during his brief visit to my office, he said he believes finding both is of great importance.
Although given the threats he’s receiving—or more specifically, what action they want him to take—he’s narrowed the pool of culprits, at least for his extortion.
It’s a mad world, and all I can picture is that gun—weight and chill.
I reach for the phone again—habit, not logic. The day’s almost gone and silence hums louder than any ringtone. But I’m not powerless. I click on contacts and press send.
The line rings twice.
“This is Hudson.”
“Adrien d’Avricourt.” My voice sounds steadier than I feel.
“Hi Adrien, what can I do for you?”
“Calling for a project update.” I don’t add that I’m really calling to make sure she’s breathing. “The senator stopped by this morning. Seems he’s narrowed his list of suspects.”
“He has ideas, but ideas alone won’t win an indictment, or even a search warrant.”
“How close are you to catching them?”
Hudson’s pause stretches long enough that I wonder if we’ve lost connection.
“Each threat narrows the field,” he says. “But we’re not there yet.”
“And when can I start cleaning house?” I pointedly avoid saying Eddie’s name with the door closed and voices in the hallway.
“We’re close,” he says. “By the way—do you know where Thorne went this afternoon?”
That gets my attention. “I assume he’s here.”
“Is it unusual for him to leave during the day?”
I tap my fingers against the desk; aware that I don’t actually know, as he’s a senior staff member. “I’m not a micromanager. Our hours are non-traditional. Employees don’t alert me if they step out for errands or whatnot.”
So Eddie’s gone. And if he’s gone, maybe Brie’s following. My stomach knots.
“Why?”
“He was last seen outside Penn Station.”
“And?” Surely there’s more to that statement.
“The project update. We are making headway. We’ve found more on Moira Kelly.
Intelligence suggests she’s part of Magpie, a group that came into existence in the late nineties.
A business built around selling secrets.
She’s a former CIA psychological expert who went private; she might actually be the head of the organization. ”
“I recognized her. She’s a regular during fashion week. Museum showings.”
“She presents as a wealthy widow who spends most of her time in Europe,” Hudson says.
That matches up with what I recall. Not necessarily the widow part, but she definitely comes across as high net worth and well-connected.
“And I presume she recruits sources?”
“We’re still working on how her business functions.”
“So you still need me to keep…” I pause, looking to the closed walnut door, and lower my voice, “The subject employed?”
“Actually, no. Proceed as you wish.”
“But I was told that would shut down leads.”
“It appears she’s onto us.”
My stomach roils. The absence of communications from Brie… “What happened?”
“There’s been a break-in; Brie Anderson’s apartment.”
I’m on my feet before I register moving, chair slamming the wall behind me. The office walls blur as I charge to the door, slinging it open and barking to the assistant, “Get me a car. Now. Have it outside by the time I’m downstairs.”
“She’s fine,” he adds, but the words barely penetrate. The palm holding the phone has grown clammy and my throat tightens.
I knew something was wrong. And I sat here—comfortable, detached—a king in glass while she was out there alone.
“This just happened. We’re still getting to the bottom of it. But the person who broke in left photographs of both you and Brie. No message but she might have surprised them before they were done. But we’re fairly certain it’s related to the investigation.”
“In what way?”
“They want us to stop.”
I sling open the door, squinting into the daylight.
“Which means we’re getting close.”
A black limousine pulls to the curb and I’m reaching for the handle before the wheels have stopped turning.
I shout Brie’s address to the driver and the second he responds with, “Yes sir,” I’m pressing the button to raise the divider.
“Say it again,” I demand. “She’s not hurt.”
I know he said she’s okay, but I need to see her. I need to touch her and know that she’s unharmed. I’m wired, unfocused—scared. There it is, the word I hate admitting even to myself.
Yes, that’s the fucking emotion. Fear, clean and corrosive.
“She’s fine. There’s no damage to her apartment.”
That fucking apartment. Her building with its single-entry code suddenly seems impossibly vulnerable. No doorman, no security desk, just a goddamn wood and glass door between her and whoever wants in.
“Why wasn’t I told the second it happened?”
“Because it just happened. We’re still sorting it out.” His tone shifts. “And I didn’t realize how personal this is for you.”
I glare out the darkened windows. We’re on the West Side Highway now, flying north, weaving across the lanes.
“We have history,” I say—too clipped to hide anything. It’s none of his damn business, and I don’t particularly care if he’s pissed his employee didn’t share. That’s her burden to explain, though every instinct in me wants her out of this assignment.
“Understood.”
There’s a sharpness to his tone but I don’t give a damn.
“I’ll be at her place momentarily.”
“I’ll let them know to expect you.”
“Them?”
“Brie and a teammate.”
“Right.”
“We’ll be in touch,” he says and ends the call.
I lean back, eyes closed, forcing breath into lungs that refuse to expand. Christ, just hearing those words, that someone broke in, when I’d already been worried.
I wipe my palms on my trousers and as I do so, a memory surfaces.
White sheets, sunspots drifting across the ceiling, the scent of eucalyptus and her skin.
Monaco. A weekend of light and laughter before she vanished.
That weekend in Monaco was the first time I’d felt like I understood what Madame Vassante meant about the Star card—hope, guidance, finding your path.
Brie had been my star, and I let her slip away into darkness.
“How lucky am I? Finding you in a bar in Monaco, when you work at an art gallery I pass every day.”
“Think of how many times our paths have crossed… All it took for you to see me was for the right aperture.”
I lifted her fingers from my chest and nipped at a nail, then pressed my lips to the back of her hand.
“Are you into photography?”
She laughed. The sound light and airy.
Yes, that hadn’t been work Brie. She’d been unmoored from the job that weekend. And what did she say?
“Psychology. That’s what I’m into. How the human mind works.” She tapped my temple and I caressed her breast. “What it captures. When and why. If you think about it, we’re in the same trade.”
“How do you come to that conclusion?”
I hadn’t held back on my family connection. On the contrary, I’d used it to lure her away for a night that by morning I wanted to extend infinitely.
“Isn’t that what fashion is? Garnering attention? Cultivating want?”
“If my father pitched it to me like that maybe I wouldn’t insist my sister take the reins.”
“What… You’re not?”
“No. That’s why I was at the bar last night. Let the old man know I wouldn’t be taking the title.”
“King?” Her smile had been so beautiful.
“CEO.”
“Same difference.”
I’d kissed her and positioned myself between her thighs. I’d been inside her maybe fifteen minutes prior but I couldn’t get close enough.
“Why don’t you want it?”
“My sister. It’s her passion. It’s not mine.”
She stiffened below me, ever so slightly. “Does your father not believe a woman can run the ship?”
It was my turn to roll onto my side, propping my head on my elbow, taking in the beauty beside me. “You know, you’re the first person who didn’t push on why I didn’t want it. Who didn’t assume that I’m lazy or a no-good oaf, and that’s why my father’s pissed.”
“You want your sister to follow her passion. That’s admirable.”
She got it. She got me.
The car pulls to a stop and I open my eyes. There are no cops. No crime scene tape.
Hell. They probably didn’t even call it in.
I hop out and am crossing the street as the driver calls, “Sir? Should I wait for you?”
I slow on the sidewalk long enough to shout, “Sure. Find nearby parking. I’ll text Tally when I need you.”
As I climb the marble stairs, I’m reminded of the Madame and her Parisian flat. The smoky room saturated in purple, gold and twinkling lights, and the cards. The Tower. Death.
Suddenly, I’m running.
I take the steps two at a time, and one thought hammers with each footfall: I won’t lose her.
Not again. Not ever.