Gael Fuller stared at the wet stain on the leather seat next to him. It was shaped vaguely like a human being-small, shivering, and desperate.
"Should I call the police, sir?" Emmet asked from the front seat, his eyes scanning the mirrors for threats. "That could have been an assassination attempt. A plant."
Gael picked up the tablet he had been using, but he didn't unlock it. "She was soaking wet, Emmet. And she was wearing shoes from Payless. If that was an assassin, the industry has really gone downhill."
"What about the package?" Emmet gestured to the footwell.
The suitcase sat there, a bulky, pathetic thing with a broken zipper and duct tape on the handle. It was dripping muddy water onto the carpet.
"Pull over," Gael commanded.
Emmet eased the car to the curb under a streetlight. Gael leaned forward. He shouldn't touch it. Standard protocol dictated he let security handle it. But something about the sheer panic in that girl's eyes-the way she had looked at him like he was the monster-bothered him.
He reached down and unzipped the bag.
Clothes. Cheap, worn clothes. A toothbrush in a plastic bag. A half-eaten granola bar. It was the inventory of a life on the run.
And right on top, wrapped in a plastic grocery bag to keep it dry, was a black hardbound sketchbook.
Gael took it out. The cover was battered, the corners soft from use. He opened it to a random page.
He stopped breathing for a second.
It was a sketch of the new waterfront development. His development. The Fuller Group had been soliciting bids from the world's top architectural firms for months. He had seen hundreds of renderings-slick, computer-generated, soulless glass towers.
This was different. It was drawn in charcoal and ink. The lines were aggressive, chaotic, yet perfectly structural. The building didn't just sit on the water; it seemed to rise from it, organic and sharp. It solved the wind shear problem on the north face with a cantilevered terrace design he hadn't seen any engineer propose.
He turned the page. A detail of a support strut.
Turned another. A lobby concept that used natural light to filter movement.
"Who is she?" Gael murmured.
He flipped to the inside cover. In neat, block letters: PROPERTY OF IMOGEN SCOTT.
"Emmet," Gael said, closing the book. His voice had shifted. The boredom was gone. "Cancel the dinner with the senator."
"Sir?"
"Take this bag to the penthouse. Have it cleaned. But don't touch the book." Gael tapped the cover with his index finger. "And find out who Imogen Scott is."
Imogen sat on the edge of the mattress in the Motel 6. The room smelled like bleach and stale cigarettes. She was wrapped in a towel that felt like sandpaper. Her clothes-her wet, dirty clothes-were draped over the heater unit, steaming slightly.
She had nothing.
No toothbrush. No change of underwear. No sketchbook.
The loss of the sketchbook hit her harder than the loss of the clothes. That book was her portfolio. It was three years of ideas, of late nights drawing by flashlight so Rick wouldn't see the light under the door. It was her ticket into the architecture program she had been secretly applying to.
She buried her face in her hands. She couldn't even cry. She was too dehydrated, too exhausted.
Her phone pinged. 1% battery. She plugged it into the wall with the charger she luckily kept in her jacket pocket.
A message from Linda.
I know you took the silver frame. Bring it back or I call the cops for theft. Also, here is the info for the man you're meeting tomorrow. 10 AM. Bean & Leaf on 5th. Don't be late. He's a dentist. He's willing to overlook your baggage.
Attached was a blurry photo of a balding man in his forties and a name: Dr. Aris.
Imogen stared at the screen. A dentist. Linda was selling her to a dentist to pay off a debt Imogen didn't even owe.
But she had to go. She had to go because Linda had her passport. If she could just get the passport back... maybe she could play along. Just long enough to steal it.
She looked at her reflection in the cracked mirror opposite the bed. Her cheek was bruising, turning a sickly purple. Her eyes were red-rimmed.
"You are a survivor," she whispered to the glass. It was a lie, but she needed to hear it.
