Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Alicia
There’s a sharp rap at the door—three quick knocks that jar my focus and my pulse.
I grind my teeth, irritation fizzing in my blood.
I have one blessed hour between client meetings.
One hour where I told everyone to hold calls.
My phone’s tucked away inside my handbag.
A futile attempt at boundaries, but the gesture matters.
This right here is why I prefer to work from home—no interruptions, no eyes watching me hold it together.
“Yes,” I bite out, voice clipped.
The door opens and Petra pokes her head in, guilt flickering across her features. “Dorian Moore is on the line. I told him you can’t be disturbed, but he said it’s urgent.”
Of course he did.
Once, Dorian was charming chaos contained in a Savile Row suit. Now he’s arrogance wrapped in urgency—too used to people jumping when he calls.
I have half a mind to make her tell him I’ll call back, but I’ve been staring at the same press release for twenty minutes, the words blurring into static.
“Thank you, Petra. I’ll take it.”
When the door clicks shut, I lean back, spine brushing cool leather, the faint aroma of coffee rising from the cup I haven’t touched. I reach for the desk phone and press the blinking light.
“Dorian,” I say, not bothering to hide the annoyance roughening my tone. Then, softening slightly, “Everything okay?”
“The team found a tracker on your vehicle.”
I flinch, twisting the chair toward the window. Outside, a skeletal tree claws at a washed-out sky, its branches reflected ghostlike in the glass.
“When?”
“Within the last hour. We’re going to increase security.”
“That’s not—”
“Don’t say it’s not necessary,” he cuts in. “Not when they’re tracking you.”
I inhale deeply, forcing oxygen into my lungs, forcing logic to override panic. “Who would do this? Can you trace it?”
“They’re working on it. As for who—like I’ve been telling you since charges were filed against Pierce—” Pierce, the defense contractor whose company had been accused of leveraging stolen intelligence and risqué videos to pressure lawmakers into approving Pentagon contracts.
“Pierce won’t want anything you know—anything you’ve stumbled onto through your other clients—surfacing in the investigation.
If you possess information someone doesn’t want exposed in discovery, you’re at risk. ”
My fingertips press against the windowpane, cold seeping into my skin. “What does tracking me get them?”
“In the worst-case scenario? Your schedule. Your patterns. They’re patient, Alicia. They find ways to make things look like accidents.”
A chill crawls over my arms. “You really believe that? This isn’t just your crime-fetish paranoia talking?”
“Unfortunately, no. The investigation into Pierce is widening. And when the circle expands, the expendable targets multiply.”
“And you think some of my clients are getting swept up in it?”
“I’d say at the very least, Pierce—who’s both wealthy and ruthless—is worried. And maybe others exposed with the Pierce investigation.”
“Senator Crawford has access to the same intelligence I do, through his own channels,” I counter. “I’m not the only pathway to exposure.”
“And for the most part, that would be hearsay. You, on the other hand—clients confide in you directly. Sometimes they hand you the evidence.”
I exhale slowly, the sound trembling through the silence. “I don’t have anything on Pierce that Crawford doesn’t.”
“But does he know that? And what about Senator Lopez? Your other client from the Magpie situation—she was working with the same extortionist, different leverage.” Dorian’s tone lowers, softer now. “Don’t forget, Vasquez sent emails before her death that said you possess information.”
“This is…absurd.” My gaze lifts to the ceiling tiles, willing them not to shift, not to close in. “But why would someone plant a tracker?”
“The tracker’s not the problem. It’s what they plan to do with what they learn.”
A slow throb starts at my temples. “Do you think they’d hurt Stella?”
“If it were me, no. I’d make something look like an accident.”
My throat tightens. “Is he really that—”
“It might not be just him. He’s connected, Alicia. And we don’t know who might think they could get caught up in the investigation. This is bigger than Pierce.”
I rub my arms, grounding myself in the texture of wool and the faint hum of the building’s HVAC. “You know, before, I didn’t understand how much can surface during discovery. Now I’m getting a crash course.”
“You mean your police interrogation?”
“You heard about that?”
“I’m kept updated,” he says, and I picture the network of quiet watchers KOAN deploys.
“What did they want to know that you haven’t already told them?”
“He’s out of leads,” I say. “He’s digging deep, looking for cracks.”
“You worked with Delacroix years ago.”
“Ten,” I reply automatically. The number feels weighted. “Though he stayed on my board for three years after that.”
“So the police, they’re grasping at straws?”
“Maybe.”
“What aren’t you telling me?”
“If I tell you—” I stop, pulse hammering. “Never mind. I can’t.”
“Alicia.” The line goes quiet—a silence weighted with suspicion. “What has the detective uncovered that you don’t want public?”
Shit. Too much.
“You and Delacroix. You had an affair.”
I close my eyes, shame and memory tangling in my chest—the scent of aftershave and hotel linen, the way guilt tastes like metal on the tongue.
“Nick was right,” Dorian murmurs.
“Nick?” The name lands like a stone dropped into still water. Nick. That weekend in the city. The accidental run-in. All these years. “What—”
“That weekend in the city with you and Christine. Nick suspected something was going on with you two when we ran into him in the hotel lobby. I’d forgotten about that—but that’s why his name was familiar. How’d the detective find out?”
“I don’t know,” I whisper. “But he suspects. No one knows. No one.”
“If Nick picked up on it after one weekend…” He doesn’t need to finish. I know what he’s implying.
“We were careful,” I say quietly. “Both married. It was stupid. And it ended long before his death. Even before he dropped off my board of advisors.”
“Does Richard know?”
“No.” The response is whip fast—too quick—but it’s true.
“You sure?”
A humorless smile curves my lips. “He didn’t then, but he suspects now. If he knew back then, he’d have weaponized it to void the prenup.”
“Good point. What made him suspect now after all these years?”
“He came to the station. The detective asked pointed questions—right in front of him. He confronted me. I denied it.”
“Well, having an affair doesn’t make you a murderer. But was there someone else? A recent affair? Did Delacroix’s wife know?”
“She didn’t know about me.” I pause. “But maybe someone. He stepped off the board to ‘work on his marriage,’ but who knows. That’s for the detective to solve.”
Dorian exhales, low and weighted. “So now you’re a person of interest. Do you need a lawyer?”
“No,” I say, though I’m not sure I believe it.
“At least not for Delacroix’s murder case.
The affair happened too long ago. Now, as for Pierce.
I’ve already agreed to the closed-door congressional hearing in relation to my client Senator Crawford.
With Pierce’s criminal case underway…do you think I’ll be subpoenaed? What are you hearing?”
“I’d say it’s likely.”
“You know anything I have on Pierce would surface through the senator’s channels too.”
“Honestly, I don’t think it’s Pierce watching you—it’s possible, but it’s not what I’d bet on. My guess? A peripheral client. Someone with more to lose. Pierce is already exposed.”
That tracks. My job isn’t always about saving reputation. It’s about triage after detonation. I manage the aftermath when the truth’s already escaped. But sometimes, the crisis starts before exposure, when someone’s desperate enough to hide it.
“Maybe I’ll go through my files,” I murmur. “See who else worked with Vasquez. Or Magpie.”
“You think there’s overlap? Something with Pierce you haven’t considered?”
“There’s always overlap,” I say. “In politics, in secrets, in sin.”
He’s quiet.
“I’m calling in favors to get a read on where Pierce’s investigation’s headed,” he finally says. “But they’re keeping it tight.”
“Good. Leaks would only scatter them.” My tone softens, professional instinct kicking in. “When someone comes to me with a self-inflicted disaster, I conduct my own version of discovery. It’s the only way to be ready.”
“Because everyone lies.”
“Everyone lies,” I echo, staring at my reflection in the glass—eyes weary, mouth a practiced line. “But especially the ones closest to implosion.”