Chapter 21
VIOLET
He's here.
I type it with shaking hands, my phone hidden beneath the edge of my desk, my eyes fixed on my monitor like I'm reading an email.
Kylie responds in three seconds. Who's here?
Lance. He's in Gianni's office right now. He transferred to New York.
The typing dots appear, disappear, appear again. Then: Are you sure?
I watched him walk through the door. He saw me. He smiled.
A long pause. Longer than any texting pause Kylie has ever taken in the five years I've known her, and that alone tells me how bad this is. Kylie doesn't pause.; she processes information at the speed of thought. If she's pausing, she's scared.
OK. Don't panic. Where is Patrick?
Pre-school. Two blocks from the apartment.
Is he safe?
Gianni has people watching my place. I don't know if they're watching the school.
I'll find out. Give me twenty minutes. Do NOT leave the building until I tell you it's clear. Do you hear me, Vi? Stay put.
I can't stay here. I need to go. I need to get Patrick and leave. Go somewhere that’s not here.
STAY. PUT. If Lance is in that building, he might have people watching the exits. If you run now, it might give him an excuse to stop you. You are Violet Wolfe, office manager, and you don't know anything. That is who you are right now. Be her.
I put the phone face-down on my desk, press my palms flat against my thighs, and breathe.
Jessica isn’t here. I’m Violet. I have to be the woman who moved to the city from Jersey a year ago and keeps the break room stocked and organizes invoices and schedules.
Just some clueless office manager among office managers who doesn’t know a thing about the Camorra or the FBI or anything like that. Simple.
Miss Wolfe. Back to your desk.
I get why he did it. The rational part of my brain understands that Gianni couldn’t show any indication to Lance or the other agents, for that matter, that I’m anything to him other than just another employee. He did it because it was prudent, and to protect me.
But I’m not exactly feeling rational right now, because the man I escaped from is here and the only person who could possibly protect me from him just dismissed me from his sight like I’m some clueless temp worker.
My hands won't stop shaking. I fold them in my lap, stare at the spreadsheet on my screen, and see nothing. The numbers blur and the columns swim. All I can think about is the way Lance smiled when he saw me—the easy, familiar, terrible smile that used to precede the worst nights of my life.
Small world.
Two words. Delivered like a joke, like it was all some game to him. As if running into your ex-wife at her new workplace was all some charming coincidence and not the end result of him stalking me after I fled with our child in the middle of the night.
"Well, that was dramatic."
I look up. Theresa is standing at the edge of my desk with her arms folded and one perfectly sculpted eyebrow raised.
She's holding a Starbucks cup in one hand, looking causal as if there weren’t an entire goddamn team of FBI agents in the building.
How she’s not bothered by this I can’t even begin to guess.
"Are you okay?" she asks. "You look like you're about to throw up."
"I'm fine."
"You're green."
"I said I'm fine, Theresa."
"The FBI just raided the boss’s office and you're fine?" She tilts her head.
"It wasn't a raid. They came to ask questions."
"With six agents and no appointment? Sweetheart, that's a raid in everything but name. I knew things had been dicey with the boss and his other business dealings, but this was unexpected. The Bureau wouldn’t OK a move like this unless they had something.
" She leans against the door frame, her expression tinged with curiosity.
"Who's the agent in charge? The tall one with the gorgeous eyes? "
Hearing someone describe Lance in terms like that is enough to make me sick all over again. But I push that feeling down.
"I don't know him."
"You looked like you knew him."
"I don't."
She's about to push, to see if she can get a rise out of me.
Before she gets a chance, the stairwell door opens at the far end of the floor and Lance walks out.
It’s just him, alone, straightening his cuffs as he moves through the open-plan office with the unhurried confidence of a man who knows every eye in the room is on him and enjoys it.
Lance has always been like that, wanting to be the center of attention, wanting everyone to spot the FBI badge on his hip and realize how important he is.He's scanning desks as he walks, the way a predator scans the field.
For a moment, I hope he’s here for someone else. But that hope flickers out the instant his gaze lands on me.
"Miss Wolfe, right?" He stops in front of my desk, his voice carrying through the entire office. He wants to make sure everyone’s watching and listening. " I'm leading the investigation into Russo Industries. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?"
A friendly, professional smile is plastered on his face, and his is tone personable. He knows what he’s doing, what effect he’s having on me.
Every nerve in my body is screaming. My hands are ice. My vision is narrowing at the edges, the old tunnel-vision response that used to kick in when I heard his footsteps in the hallway at home, when I knew by the weight of his tread whether it was going to be a good night or a bad one.
Kylie said be Violet. So I'm Violet.
"Of course," I say. It takes all the energy I have to make my voice steady.
“Excellent,” he replies. “You’re just the woman I’m looking for.”
I want to scream. "I'm not sure how much help I'll be. I'm just an office manager. One of many."
"Every office manager knows more than they think." He pulls up a chair from the neighboring desk and sits closer than a federal agent needs to for a routine interview. He’s playing a game, toying with me. "How long have you worked here, Miss Wolfe?"
"About eleven months."
“Eleven months,” he says, nodding along. “And during these eleven months, have you noticed anything unusual about the company’s operations? For example, undisclosed meetings about topics that struck you as cryptic?”
"No. I manage schedules and file paperwork and handle certain office logistics. I occasionally take notes during meetings, but it’s all above-board. Nothing that’s given me pause.”
"But you have access to Mr. Russo." He says it casually, like he’s just looking for details. But I know he knows something. "You work closely with him. You said you attend meetings and take notes. You’d notice if something felt off.”
"Nothing has felt off."
"Nothing at all?"
"I answer phones and organize files, Agent Dawson. I’m an office manager; that's the extent of my involvement. If there was anything else going on here, I’m the last person who would know.”
He watches me. I hold his gaze and give no hint of what I’m feeling inside. "Interesting," he says softly.
"Agent Dawson?" Theresa materializes at my desk like a very expensively dressed guardian angel.
She's straightened her posture, tilted her chin to its most authoritative angle, and is looking at Lance with focused attention.
"I'm Theresa Randolph, Senior Vice President.
If you have questions about the company's business operations, I'm the one you should be speaking with.
I have oversight of all departmental functions and I'm happy to cooperate fully. "
She positions herself between Lance and my desk, but it’s not in a protective sort of way. She wants him away from me, but not because she cares about my well being. She wants him looking at her.
Lance turns to her and assesses. I see the calculation move across his face—the quick, efficient appraisal of someone who sorts people into categories: useful, useless, exploitable.
She can’t give him exactly what he wants. Only I can do that.
"Ms. Randolph," he says, standing. "I'd love to chat. Is there somewhere private we could talk?"
Theresa smiles. "There’s an open conference room just down the hall."
I watch them go, tracking them the entire time. Theresa’s heels echo that now-familiar confident click, and Lance matches her pace with an easy stride. They reach the end of the hall and turn the corner and are gone.
A strange, awkward tension is still in the air. People around me begin to shift back into work, but I keep feeling glances out of the corner of my eye. They’re all wondering the same thing, I can tell—Why did an FBI agent come all the way down here to talk to me?
There’s no doubt Lance understood the effect of him doing what he did. People are looking at me differently, this previously nondescript office manager now a subject of curiosity and attention.
Curiosity and attention are the last things I want.
I pick up my phone, grab my bag from under the desk, and walk to the fire exit. Not the elevator. Not the front lobby. The fire stairs at the end of the hall—the ones I mapped my first week here, the same way I mapped the exits of every building I've entered for the past fourteen months.
I push through the door. It closes behind me with a heavy metallic click.
And then I run.