CHAPTER 12
Brynn
Geneva, Switzerland
I cracked the window to let the air move through, but Geneva’s breeze carried more humidity than any real relief. It pressed against my skin, damp. The fan on the shelf hummed in protest, barely helping. Papers shifted across the coffee table, lifting edges and settling with soft, dry taps.
The folder was open again, the photo grainy in the lamp’s glare. Club Darrow.
I’d been staring at the same warped reflection for hours, like the neon lettering might rearrange itself into something useful if I looked long enough.
It didn’t.
The back wasn’t any more generous.
Meeting point. Access tests.
Four words. No names. No explanation. Nothing that pointed toward the part where any of this started making sense.
Just a nightclub, a reflection, and one of Matt’s last breadcrumbs.
I leaned back against the old sofa, my spine catching against the fabric’s worn edges. The fibers scratched through my shirt.
Other folders were fanned out around me like a crime scene, half-labeled, half-solved. Most of what they contained, I already knew. But this was fresh.
Whatever Matt had stumbled into led here. I just didn’t know why yet.
Coincidence didn’t cover it anymore.
Walking into a place like Darrow meant getting every detail right.
Camouflage meant a dress.
Unfortunately, Geneva wasn’t exactly overflowing with boutiques that didn’t feel like a walk of shame waiting to happen.
I’d managed to scrape together three half-decent options earlier that afternoon.
The winner hung from the doorknob, a formfitting red number that was enough to make every bad decision in a five-foot radius feel invited.
I crossed the room on bare feet and ran a finger down the garment.
I didn’t love it, but it would get the job done. It might even do more than I needed.
If I’d known this was where the trail would lead, I could’ve raided my new sister-in-law’s closet when I was back in San Diego visiting. Isabel had enough lethal wardrobe options to arm a small militia.
And I was super jealous.
A quick smirk took over my face.
Then I let out a breath.
“This better be worth it, Matt,” I whispered, my smile fading before it could settle.
Time to commit.
The shower was fast. Hot water beat against my shoulders, steam curling thick across the mirror as I scrubbed away the sweat and all the second-guessing.
I toweled off, pulled on a black silk robe, and plugged in the curling wand. The faint scent of heat and burning leftover product started to rise.
The wig sat on the counter, platinum blonde, razor straight. It just needed a little work.
Makeup came next.
Contouring built structure. The liner sharpened everything else. Lipstick in a shade that said don’t ask before you even opened your mouth.
I zipped the dress and stepped back, eyes wide.
I barely recognized the woman staring back at me.
The last time I’d gotten this dressed up to infiltrate something, it hadn’t been a nightclub.
It had been a gala.
And sometimes I still woke up hot and panting from the memories of that night.