Chapter 6 #2
Then again, that's exactly what she'd do.
I look at the lipstick print.
Dark pink.
The rose.
The note.
The perfume on my jacket.
She wanted me to build this image.
Maybe it's real.
Maybe it's another Sergei.
Drew watches me put it together.
“You never pictured her like that, did you?”
“No.”
“What did you picture?”
I don't answer.
Because I don't know anymore.
Somewhere in my imagination, Vesper had become European.
Caramel-haired.
Understated.
Maybe small.
Someone with sharp eyes and sharper opinions who could disappear into an Italian street and never attract a camera.
Not Malibu Barbie with enough confidence to drink from my Scotch at my own table.
Drew laughs.
“You look disappointed.”
“I don't care what she looks like.”
“Liar.”
I pick up the rose.
No thorns.
Stem freshly cut.
Nothing identifying.
“She could have taken it from somewhere.”
“Wedding has white roses.”
“I noticed.”
“So she brought that for you.”
“I understand the implication.”
He leans closer.
“And she wore your jacket.”
I look at him.
Drew takes one step back.
“Just saying.”
My gaze returns to the collar.
Orange blossom.
Maybe not.
Could be deliberately transferred.
Could belong to another woman.
Everything is a clue.
Everything could be false.
That's Vesper.
Then Drew points toward the glass.
“At least you got DNA.”
“Yes.”
He grins.
“Finally got her.”
I don't share the confidence.
Vesper knows exactly what I can do with DNA.
She wouldn't leave saliva on crystal unless she had already considered every database I might search.
Which means one of two things.
Either she made a mistake.
Or she knows I'll find nothing.
I know which one I believe.
Still, I remove a clean evidence pouch from the emergency kit hidden inside my security case.
Drew watches.
“You carry those at weddings?”
“I carry them everywhere.”
“That's profoundly weird.”
I package the glass.
Rose separately.
Note stays with me.
“Anything else?”
He studies the chair.
Then reaches down.
“Wait.”
A strand of blonde hair rests against the black fabric of my jacket.
He lifts it carefully.
I stop him before he touches it.
Another sample.
Another deliberate gift.
“Don't.”
His hand freezes.
“You think she left that too?”
“I think Vesper doesn't do anything accidentally.”
Drew whistles.
“She really likes screwing with you.”
“Yes.”
“You love it.”
I don't answer.
Because right now, surrounded by Kane's wedding, staring at the physical evidence of a woman I've wanted to find for years, the truth is dangerously close to yes.
A shadow falls across us.
Jalen.
“What are we looking at?”
“Blackwell's girlfriend drank his Scotch.”
“She is not my girlfriend.”
“Left lipstick,” Drew adds.
Jalen peers down.
“Hot.”
“Red rose.”
“Hotter.”
“Shakespeare note.”
Jalen looks at me.
“You're screwed.”
“Apparently everyone has decided that.”
Drew claps Jalen's shoulder.
“And I saw her.”
That gets his attention.
“You did?”
“Blonde.”
Jalen looks at me.
“Vesper is blonde?”
“Maybe.”
Drew starts again.
“Big blue eyes. Tan. Malibu hair. Expensive dress. Big—”
“Enough.”
Jalen grins.
“Oh.”
I hate both of them.
“Where did she go?”
Drew looks around.
“Gone.”
I scan exits.
Terrace.
Gardens.
Reception hall.
Security checkpoints remain active.
No flagged departures.
Which means if she left, she didn't use an exit I was watching.
Again.
A familiar sensation moves through me.
Frustration.
Admiration.
Hunger.
I pick up the note and read it once more.
I am not what I am.
“You're wrong,” I murmur.
Drew leans closer.
“What?”
I fold the paper.
Nothing.
Maybe I still don't know what Vesper looks like.
Maybe the blonde was real.
Maybe she wasn't.
But she came.
She stood at my table.
Drank my Scotch.
Left her mouth on my glass.
Held my jacket close enough that traces of her still cling to the collar.
Then disappeared while I was interrogating caterers.
A slow smile pulls at my mouth.
Drew sees it.
“There he is.”
I look toward the dark gardens beyond the terrace.
Vesper wants to play.
Fine.
She just made one mistake.
Not the DNA.
Not the hair.
Not the lipstick.
She proved something far more useful.
She wanted to get close to me.
Close enough to touch what was mine.
And for the first time since London Bridge, I know with absolute certainty that I'm not the only one curious about what happens when Ghost finally catches his ghost.
My watch vibrates before I can put the rose down.
NULL.
Every other thought drops away.
Drew notices immediately.
“She’s messaging you.”
I don’t answer.
“Blackwell.”
“Go bother your wife.”
“She’s dancing.”
“Then dance with her.”
“I’m helping you.”
“You’ve done enough.”
He looks offended. “I’m the reason you have a relationship.”
“I don’t have a relationship.”
Jalen walks past with two glasses of champagne, hears the last sentence, and laughs.
“Keep telling yourself that.”
I ignore both of them and open NULL.
One message waits.
VESPER: Stop interrogating the caterers.
I go completely still.
The reception moves around me.
Music.
Glassware.
Laughter.
Someone cheering near the dance floor.
I hear none of it.
She’s still here.
I look up automatically.
Drew catches me.
“Don’t.”
My eyes move across the room anyway.
“Seriously.” He steps into my line of sight. “You’re doing exactly what she wants.”
I move around him.
My fingers type beneath the table.
GHOST: You’re still here.
Her reply arrives almost immediately.
VESPER: Maybe.
My jaw tightens.
She knows I hate that word.
GHOST: Closer than I think?
VESPER: Considerably.
I scan the bar.
Blonde women.
Brunettes.
An older woman laughing with Kane’s aunt.
Two wives from his NBA team.
A woman in pale blue carrying champagne back toward her table.
Any one of them could be Vesper.
The lipstick Drew described is dark pink.
I search mouths.
This is absurd.
GHOST: Scared to come say hello?
The dots appear.
VESPER: Scared? No. Sensible? Occasionally.
I smile despite myself.
Drew sees it.
“There he is.”
“Leave.”
“Not happening.”
I type.
GHOST: I think you’re afraid I’ll finally catch you.
Her answer takes longer.
Ten seconds.
Twenty.
Then:
VESPER: There you go again, assuming you’re the hunter.
My pulse changes.
GHOST: Aren’t I?
Nothing.
For nearly a minute.
I stop looking at the room and stare only at the black screen.
The typing indicator appears.
Disappears.
Returns.
Then one line arrives.
VESPER: Xavier Blackwell.
Everything inside me stops.
Not slows.
Stops.
Drew sees my face.
“What?”
I don’t move.
He leans toward the screen.
I turn it away before he gets close enough.
“Xavier?”
She knows.
Not Ghost.
Not some fragment.
My name.
My real name.
I read it again.
Xavier Blackwell.
For years, I’ve known more about Vesper than she thought I knew and still nowhere near enough.
For years, I’ve chased a woman who managed to make herself disappear every time I got remotely close.
And while I’ve been congratulating myself on protecting Xavier from Ghost—
she found me.
My fingers move.
GHOST: How long have you known?
The reply comes fast.
VESPER: Long enough.
Not good enough.
GHOST: Define long enough.
VESPER: Long enough to know you look better angry than you do in photographs. Sergei was the tell.
My gaze snaps up.
She can see me.
Right now.
The thought goes through me like electricity.
I turn slowly.
No frantic scanning this time.
I let my eyes travel naturally across the reception while my pulse pounds beneath the collar of my shirt.
She’s watching.
Somewhere.
A glass rises near the far bar.
A blonde laughs beside one of Kane’s teammates.
A brunette kisses her husband’s cheek.
Nothing.
Everything.
Drew moves beside me.
“She knows who you are.”
Not a question.
I look at him.
His eyebrows lift.
“Oh, shit.”
“Don’t.”
“You got made.”
“Travers.”
“You got completely made.”
I walk away from him before homicide becomes part of the reception.
NULL vibrates again.
VESPER: I guess I finally caught my first Ghost.
I step onto the terrace.
Cooler air hits my face.
The Pacific is black beyond the cliffs now, wedding lights shimmering across the surface below.
GHOST: You found my name. That isn’t the same thing as catching me.
VESPER: Isn’t it?
Then:
VESPER: I drank your Scotch.
My gaze drops instinctively toward the table inside.
VESPER: Wore your jacket.
My hand moves to the lapel.
Orange blossom.
Still there.
VESPER: Stood close enough to leave my mouth on your glass while you interrogated florists.
My jaw tightens.
VESPER: You didn’t even look at me.
That one hits harder than the others.
She was there.
Close.
And I missed her.
Again.
GHOST: You’re enjoying this.
VESPER: Immensely.
GHOST: I noticed.
VESPER: You’re supposed to be the man who sees everything.
I stare toward the ocean.
Fair.
Infuriatingly fair.
GHOST: Enjoy it while it lasts.
A pause.
VESPER: Threat?
I think about every year I’ve spent treating Vesper like a puzzle.
Every dead end.
London Bridge.
The photographs.
Sergei.
My glass.
My jacket.
Her name for me appearing on a screen after she stood somewhere inside my security fortress watching me unravel.
Something in me shifts.
I’ve spent years playing defense with her because she was anonymous.
That ended tonight.
GHOST: Warning.
VESPER: Should I be frightened?
My mouth curves.
GHOST: No.
I type the next line slowly.
GHOST: But you’ve never seen what happens when I stop watching and start coming after you.
The dots appear instantly.
Stop.
Return.
VESPER: That sounds suspiciously like a double entendre, Mr. Blackwell.
A laugh escapes me.
Low.
Real.
I lean both hands against the stone balustrade.
GHOST: Take it however you want.
VESPER: Careful.
GHOST: That’s usually my line.
VESPER: Not anymore.
Then:
VESPER: Go enjoy the wedding.
I straighten.
GHOST: Giving orders now?
VESPER: Someone has to. You’re ruining your friend’s expensive champagne by glaring at everyone.
I glance through the doors.
Drew is staring at me from across the room.
He lifts his glass.
Asshole.
GHOST: Where are you?
VESPER: Still asking the wrong question.
GHOST: Then give me the right one.
The response takes longer this time.
VESPER: Ask yourself why I wanted to see you before I let you see me.
My smile fades.