Chapter 24
Evie
I open the front door, Gabe hovering behind me, meeting her before she reaches the steps.
“You really didn’t have to come all the way here to get me. I could’ve met you.”
She looks right past me to Gabe, and there’s an unmistakable smile tugging at her lips. “It’s not a problem.”
What she’s not saying is Gabe would have never gone for that, and I have to breathe deeply through the irritation.
I don’t look back at Gabe. Nor do I say goodbye.
I do half-heartedly wiggle my fingers in a barely cordial wave before tugging her car door closed as she flips off the emergency lights that she turned on, as if that would save her from a ticket if the parking police spotted her maneuver.
While Brie checks her side view to safely merge into traffic, I study her, this Amazonian woman who Gabe assures me is highly skilled and will keep me safe.
Her blonde hair falls in soft waves down her back.
The rounded curves make me think she used hot rollers.
I can’t remember the last time I did anything more than let my straight lifeless hair air dry.
Her makeup is expertly applied, complete with perfectly drawn eyeliner that makes her blue eyes pop.
It’s a good thing she didn’t go into law. She would’ve inspired a raft of Legally Blonde jokes.
I inhale deeply and let my head fall back, releasing some of the pent-up venom.
I went to bed somewhat early to avoid the icy tension in the house.
I expected to wake up and find Gabe left for his home, but I suspect he slept beside me.
I’m not absolutely positive though. When I woke, the other side of the bed was slightly crinkled, and there was a pillow indentation.
For all I know, he lay there waiting to see if I’d wake up, then sauntered down to the guest room.
This morning he made coffee and informed me Brie would be stopping by for this meeting. A meeting scheduled on my behalf—using my connection with my father.
It’s annoying as fuck, but I have to remember that this is bigger than me. I’ve lost DOJ resources, but I’ve gained a determined group willing to cross lines, and if this is how they work, I’ll deal.
With them, at least, it’s uncomplicated. Hudson and Quinn make decisions without asking because that’s their job—cold, efficient, professional. It’s not personal.
Gabe is supposed to be different. That’s what stings. Not the locks. Not the cameras. The fact that the one person I let all the way in decided, without a second thought, that his judgment mattered more than my say. I’ve worked hard to become someone whose opinion matters.
“You doing okay with all of this?” Brie asks. Her focus is on the road, but it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to recognize she’s observant, and by closing my eyes I gave her plenty to observe.
“I’m good.”
It’s a brief response, and maybe too brief, because Brie pointedly studies me.
“Really,” I say, crossing one leg over the other with a soft sigh. “I just…I’m maybe a little jetlagged.”
Now that I say it, it might be true. I’ve never been my best self running on no sleep—today’s proof of that, probably.
“How long have you and Gabriel known each other?”
Gabriel. That’s telling. She hasn’t known him long.
“Forever,” I say. “Our moms met in Kindermusik. My older brother has been his friend since their crawling days.” The phrase is one I heard a thousand times over the years from my mom, something she’d always say on visits to her house—visits, because my dad won sole custody thanks to his battalion of lawyers.
Ironically, hearing all about those almighty lawyers is probably why I chose law.
Although I don’t particularly feel powerful these days.
“I didn’t realize that,” Brie says after a beat.
“How long have you worked with him?”
“Not that long. He joined our team a couple of months ago… November, I think?”
That’s interesting. He’s been in the DC area for a while yet he just recently came around to say hello. It’s January, and he showed up, what? Two weeks ago? And he tried to tell me that he came here to be closer to me. Right.
“He’s a good addition to the team,” Brie says. “Do you two live together?”
“No,” I’m quick to answer.
“Hmm. It was my understanding he moved East to be closer to family.”
She says it like a statement and a question. “His mom’s in Illinois.”
He wants the NSA, and that’s the underlying reason he moved, but I refrain from sharing that detail in case his employers aren’t aware of his long-term goals.
I don’t know how any of that works in his world.
“We’ve been friends for a long time, but it’s not like we’re so close he’d move to be near me. ” No matter what he says.
Brie rolls her lips. Maybe they’re dry. Maybe she’s thinking. It doesn’t matter.
“Anyway, the senator,” I say, shifting to the conversation we should have before we arrive at his office. “Gabe mentioned he surfaced in a case you recently worked on? The one with the former chief of staff?”
Vasquez’s suicide had been all over the news, but the overarching narrative was that she had battled anxiety and depression for most of her life. Only those paying attention knew that she’d allegedly been involved in extortion and under-the-table deals with the Pentagon.
“He surfaced—on paper. I’ve never met him. But I’m intrigued. Especially since investigations into Magpie—are you familiar?”
“It’s an extortion ring,” I say, repeating what I’ve gleaned from articles.
“Not exactly. They sell information to the highest bidder. They have sources around the world. What the buyers do with that information…” She shrugs. “But it’s suspicious that there hasn’t been a bigger investigation.”
“Not really. Anything they find won’t shed a favorable light on the administration.”
“True. But this is bipartisan. And Magpie isn’t even American-owned. I’d expect teeth.”
“Well, knowing what I know of cross-agency investigations, it could absolutely be high priority, and it’s just out of the public eye.” I scan the passing DC buildings, the workday underway, a workday that now excludes me. “Of course, there could be someone with influence hoping everyone forgets.”
“Is that what you think is happening with the Safe Passage Op?”
I shift in my seat and answer honestly. “Public awareness of human trafficking cases is nonexistent. The DOJ dropping the case is akin to burying it six feet under.”
Brie signals and pulls into a reserved parking lane outside a red-brick federal building just off Constitution Avenue.
“Ready?” she asks.
“No,” I answer, again honestly. I’m not scared; my mood’s simply in the sewer. “But let’s go anyway.”
After passing through security, the receptionist recognizes my last name immediately. That tracks. I’d worn the gray skirt suit for exactly this reason—the kind of understated authority that plays well in a room like this.
We’re escorted into a corner office—high ceilings, heavy drapes, bookcases filled with leather-bound volumes, the faint scent of old paper and something citrus-polished. The man behind the desk stands slowly.
The senator is older than I expected. Not frail. But deeply wrinkled with slow, deliberate movements.
“Ms. Thompson,” he says, extending his hand. “Your father speaks very highly of you.”
That almost makes me laugh.
“Senator Ward. Thank you for seeing us.”
He gestures toward the seating area rather than the desk. That’s intentional. This is meant to feel collegial.
Brie remains slightly behind me.
“I understand you’ve been pursuing something the Department of Justice declined to move forward on,” he says, lowering himself into a leather chair with one arm on the armrest for balance.
“I was,” I say evenly. “The Safe Passage investigation.”
“Yes. Human trafficking allegations involving a private refugee resettlement group.”
He says it cleanly. No hesitation. No irritation.
“That’s right.”
“And you believe the DOJ’s decision to reallocate resources was improper?”
There it is. Framed as bureaucratic, not corrupt.
“I believe the case met prosecutorial thresholds and that the evidence warranted further subpoenas.” We had an air-tight case against the runners, and reason to believe we could climb the chain.
He folds his hands. “You’re aware the department has finite bandwidth.”
“I am.”
“And that sometimes decisions are strategic.”
“I am.”
He narrows his gaze, eyelids closing slightly, creases around his eyes deepening as if squinting. It’s deliberate.
“What I don’t understand,” I continue, “is why there appears to have been coordinated pressure from DHS to transfer certain individuals before our warrants were executed.”
There.
A beat.
He does not blink.
“DHS and DOJ communicate regularly,” he says. “Interagency cooperation is not unusual.”
“Of course,” I say. “But the transfer documents were signed within hours of the internal memo I circulated—the one flagging Lina Morozova’s cooperation and recommending expedited warrants against the individuals she’d identified.”
That’s new information to him.
Not shock.
Interest.
“Do you have evidence of wrongdoing, Ms. Thompson?” he asks calmly.
“I have timing.”
“And timing can imply many things.”
He isn’t defensive.
He isn’t overexplaining.
He’s careful.
Brie leans forward. “Senator, you’ve publicly opposed expanding FBI trafficking task force funding,” she says.
“Yet your voting record supports increased border enforcement grants that route through private contractors—including Alpine Refuge Network, the same organization that coordinated Lina Morozova’s transfer to Switzerland. "
He exhales through his nose. Slight irritation.
“I oppose expanding bureaucracy without oversight,” he says. “And I support border security. That does not equate to endorsing criminal conduct.”
“Do you have any financial ties to Meridian Risk Solutions?” I ask directly.
That one earns a small smile.
“No.”
Clean.
No deflection. No joke. Just no.
“And Elena Vasquez?” Brie asks. “You were close.”
His jaw tightens. Not guilt.
Grief.