CHAPTER 16
Brynn
Geneva, Switzerland
I walked one block.
Then two.
At the corner, I caught my reflection in a dark shop window.
Between the bleached-blonde wig, the red lipstick, and the dress screaming for attention, I looked less undercover and more like a flashing red stop sign.
Jesus Christ. I was a fucking beacon.
I ducked into the mouth of an alley, yanked the wig off, and shoved it into my clutch as pins scraped against my scalp. My real hair fell loose and dark around my shoulders. I wiped at my lipstick with the heel of my hand until it smeared across my skin.
Footsteps passed the alley entrance.
I held still.
A man moved into view beneath the streetlamp, scanning the sidewalk ahead.
The man from the bar.
Or the hallway.
Either way, not mine.
He looked past the alley once, then again.
My lungs burned.
He kept walking.
I waited three seconds longer than I wanted to, then slipped out the other end.
I cut through two alleys, crossed behind a closed restaurant, and doubled back through a narrow side street that smelled like wet stone and garbage.
My heels struck too loudly against the pavement, so I took them off and ran barefoot for half a block, clutching them in one hand and my bag in the other.
By the time I reached the main road, my breath tore in and out of my chest.
No footsteps behind me.
No car slowing at the curb.
No man pretending to check his phone.
Nothing.
I kept moving anyway.
My apartment building appeared around the corner, quiet and ugly and beautiful in the way only a locked door could be beautiful after a night like that.
I got inside, climbed the stairs too fast, and didn’t breathe properly until the door was shut behind me.
The flat was dark.
I leaned back against the door, one hand pressed to my chest, and listened.
My hands were still shaking when I reached for the small hallway table lamp.
I had no idea what I’d just seen.
But it wasn’t a meeting point.
It wasn’t a club.
And whatever Matt meant by access tests, I was pretty sure I had just triggered one.
I kicked off my heels and flung my coat across the back of a chair.
I made a beeline for the wine rack and snatched a bottle like this was standard protocol.
The dress came off with a bit of a struggle, the zipper catching for a second. I didn’t bother hanging it up. I just pulled an old hoodie over my head, damp hair sticking to the collar.
My skin still buzzed. My body had stopped. Everything inside me hadn’t.
In the kitchen, I poured the wine and took a sip. The glass stayed in my hand.
The fridge’s hum was the only sound breaking the silence as I stood there. My shoulders started to drop, then tightened again when the image of my face on that screen came back.
I curled onto the couch, legs tucked under me, wine glass cradled in both hands. The TV screen stared back blank and uninviting. I didn’t turn it on, just took another sip, trying to slow the spin while my eyes kept tracking the room anyway.
I set the glass down, then reached for it again. I couldn’t settle, not in the hoodie or in the dark.
My hand went for my phone, but I stopped myself.
I almost called my brother.
Calling him now meant handing over control, and I wasn’t ready to do that yet. I needed a few more minutes. Just five.
Then I needed to write everything that had just happened down.
Maybe the wine would take the edge off. Maybe not.
Mid-breath, the lock shifted.
A quiet click.
Jesus Christ, was that the fucking door?
Every muscle in my body snapped tight.
Beckett will kill me if I die here in a shitty apartment in Geneva.