The water was scalding. Evita stood under the spray in the tiny bathroom of the Brooklyn safe house, scrubbing her skin with a stiff-bristled brush until it turned raw and red. She was trying to wash him off. The scent of sandalwood, the phantom sensation of his hands on her waist-it clung to her like a second skin.
She turned off the water and leaned her forehead against the cool tiles. Tears mixed with the droplets on her face. It wasn't just fear. It was the terrifying realization that for a few hours in the dark, she hadn't been pretending. She had been real. And she had liked it.
A knock on the door made her jump.
"Cipher," a male voice called out. "You're twelve hours late. I was about to scrub the mission."
Evita wrapped a towel around her hair and pulled on a thick bathrobe. She opened the door. Harper was standing there, holding a tablet, his face pale.
She walked past him into the living room, grabbing a tube of heavy-duty concealer from her bag. She began dabbing it onto the bruise on her neck.
"Mission aborted," she signed, her hands moving sharply. "Complications."
"Complications?" Harper scoffed. He shoved the tablet at her. "Look at the news. Vanderbilt Estate is on lockdown. They're saying it's a manhunt for a corporate spy."
Evita's heart skipped a beat. She took the tablet. The headline screamed: STONE SECURITY BREACH.
"Is that you?" Harper asked.
Evita didn't answer. She walked over to the pile of clothes she had discarded on the floor. She picked up the navy jacket.
"Holy shit," Harper breathed. He reached out and touched the fabric. "Is that... Vicuña wool? That's a forty-thousand-dollar jacket."
He flipped the lapel. Embroidered in silver thread were two small letters: J.S.
"J.S.," Harper muttered. He typed furiously on his keyboard. "Jedidiah Stone? The cripple? The recluse?"
Evita sank onto the sofa. The room spun. She had slept with the Broken King.
"If it was him," Harper said, his voice dropping to a whisper, "you are in serious trouble. Stone security is Mossad-level. If he finds you..."
"He didn't see my face," Evita said. Her voice was raspy, unused to being used. "It was dark. I was careful."
Harper looked at her, surprised by the sound of her voice. He rarely heard it.
Her burner phone buzzed on the table. It was the specific ringtone assigned to the Peck family. A shrill, demanding chime.
Evita picked it up.
"Where the hell are you?" Eleanora's voice screeched through the speaker. "Cherry said you ran off last night! Do you have any idea how much damage you've caused?"
Evita didn't speak. She tapped the microphone twice with her fingernail. Tap. Tap.
"Get back to D.C. immediately," Eleanora yelled. "I have news for you. And don't you dare make me wait."
The line went dead.
Evita stared at the phone. "She wants me back."
"Don't go," Harper said. "It's a trap. Stay here. We can extract you."
Evita stood up. Her eyes were cold, the fear replaced by a steely resolve. "No. The safest place is right under their noses. Jedidiah Stone is looking for a spy. He won't be looking for the Senator's mute, broken doll."
She began to pack. She took the navy jacket, folded it carefully inside out, and placed it in the hidden bottom compartment of her suitcase.
At the Stone Estate, Quentin stood before Jedidiah's desk.
"The camera feeds weren't looped, sir. They were corrupted. A localized EM pulse fried the recorders for a ninety-second window, exactly when she would have passed the main camera bank. It's not amateur work; it's military-grade stealth tech. We only have a back profile from a distance camera." Quentin hesitated. "We did find that Evita Peck, the Senator's illegitimate daughter, left early. She fits the general build."
Jedidiah looked up from his computer. "The mute?"
"Yes, sir."
Jedidiah let out a short, derisive laugh. "A traumatized girl who can't even speak? You think she deployed an EMP, breached my security, disabled three locks, and cleaned a crime scene?" He shook his head. "Don't waste my time. Check the others."
"Yes, sir."
"But," Jedidiah added, his eyes darkening, "keep an eye on the Peck family. O'Connell was looking for someone last night. There might be a connection."
Evita stepped out of the safe house, wearing an oversized gray sweater and thick-rimmed glasses. Her posture slumped, her gaze vacant. She was Evita Peck again.
A black SUV rolled slowly past the corner. The tinted window lowered an inch, just enough for a pair of eyes to watch her get into a cab.
