Adam drummed his fingers on the mahogany. "Well? It's been twenty-four hours. New York is an island. How hard is it to find a woman with a suitcase?"
Russo cleared his throat. He placed a single sheet of paper on the desk. It was blank, except for a few lines of computer code printed in red.
"It's not hard, Mr. Payne. It's impossible."
Adam picked up the paper. "What is this?"
"I ran her Social Security Number," Russo said. "Standard trace. Credit checks, rental applications, hotel registries. Usually, I get a hit in ten minutes."
"And?"
"And the system locked me out. Not just a 'no results' error. A hard lock. My screen went black, and this warning popped up." Russo pointed to the red text. "That's an NSA flag, Mr. Payne. Level 5 Encryption."
Adam stared at the paper. He laughed, a dry, incredulous sound. "The NSA? For Jessye? My wife bakes cookies and volunteers at the library. She's not Jason Bourne."
"With all due respect," Russo said, leaning forward. "Level 5 is reserved for two types of people: Witness Protection, or National Assets. Scientists working on classified defense projects. High-level diplomats."
Adam shook his head. "She's a lab assistant. She worked at W.D. Labs for a year before we married. It's a pharmaceutical company, not the Pentagon. If she was a spook, my company's vetting process would have caught it years ago."
"That's the thing," Russo said, tapping the paper. "I dug deeper. It seems her file was... dormant. Scrubbed clean. She must have activated some kind of civilian protocol when she married you. But now? The sleeping giant is awake. She's back under the umbrella. I can't touch her. If I try again, I lose my license."
Adam felt a chill crawl up his spine. He looked at the empty chair where Jessye used to sit during his office parties, quietly sipping water. Who had he been living with?
Jean, his secretary, entered the room with a fresh pot of coffee. She set it down, her eyes lingering on the red text. She knew. She had always known. She was a biochem major before she needed the money, and she worshipped Dr. Haley's published papers from ten years ago.
"Sir," Jean said, her voice carefully neutral. "If you're looking for her... maybe check the guest list for the Science Summit tomorrow? W.D. Labs usually sends a delegation."
Adam waved her off. "She won't be there. She hates crowds. She's probably hiding in some motel in Jersey, crying."
"Keep looking," Adam ordered Russo. "I don't care about the NSA. Use manual surveillance. Check her parents' old properties."
"Her parents are dead, sir."
"They had an estate. In the Hamptons. The Haley Manor. It's been boarded up for years, but check it."
The Hamptons were grey and windswept. The summer crowds were gone, leaving the coastline raw and beautiful.
A black SUV turned off the main highway, crunching onto a gravel driveway that wound through a dense forest of pines. The trees opened up to reveal Haley Manor-a sprawling, stone estate perched on a cliff overlooking the Atlantic. It wasn't modern or flashy like the Payne beach house. It was old money. It had turrets and ivy and a soul.
Jessye rolled down the window. The salt air hit her face, cold and cleansing.
The heavy iron gates groaned open. Standing on the steps of the main house was an elderly man in a tweed suit. Alfred. The estate manager who had served her grandfather.
Jessye stepped out of the car. Her legs felt shaky. "Alfred."
"Miss Jessye," Alfred said, his voice thick with emotion. He bowed his head. "Welcome home. It has been too long."
"It has," she whispered. She looked up at the house. It didn't look abandoned. The windows were clean. The lawn was manicured. There were lights on in the library.
"Who kept it running?" she asked. "I stopped the payments when I married Adam. I thought..."
"Mr. Quinn," Alfred said.
Jessye froze. "Benedict?"
"He insisted. He said the house must be ready for the day you returned."
Jessye walked up the stone steps, her heart beating a frantic rhythm. She entered the foyer. It smelled of beeswax and old paper-the scent of her childhood. She walked down the long hallway, her fingers trailing over the framed photographs of her parents accepting their Nobel Prize.
She stopped at the library door. It was slightly ajar. Firelight flickered from within.
She pushed the door open.
A man stood by the fireplace, his back to her. He was tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a charcoal three-piece suit that fit him like armor. He was looking at a painting-a portrait of Jessye at eighteen.
"I knew you'd come here," he said. His voice was deep, resonant, like a cello string being plucked.
He turned around. Benedict Quinn. The heir to the Quinn banking dynasty, the 'Monk of Wall Street', and her oldest friend. His face was sharper than she remembered, the lines around his eyes deeper, but the gaze was the same. Intense. unwavering.
"Benedict," Jessye breathed.
He crossed the room in three long strides. He stopped a foot away from her, respecting her space, though his eyes devoured her.
"You're out," he said. It wasn't a question. It was a statement of victory.
"I'm out," she confirmed.
"Good." Benedict reached out, hesitating for a moment before gently taking her hand. He turned it over, looking at the faint red mark where her wedding ring used to be. His jaw tightened. "Did he hurt you?"
"Only my pride," Jessye said. "And my time."
"I have your legal team on standby," Benedict said, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. "And the W.D. Labs board has reinstated your full authority. You are untouchable now, Jessye."
"Why?" she asked, looking up at him. "Why did you wait for me? Why did you keep the house?"
"Because," Benedict said, his voice dropping to a whisper that shivered through her. "I knew the bird would eventually outgrow the cage. And I wanted to make sure there was a branch for you to land on."
He released her hand, stepping back to the desk. He picked up a thick document.
"The Summit is tomorrow. Are you ready to face him?"
"I am," Jessye said.
"Good." Benedict's eyes gleamed with a dangerous light. "Because I'll be there. And this time, I'm not standing in the background."
Back in Manhattan, Adam was scrolling through the Summit guest list on his iPad, drinking scotch straight from the bottle. He was looking for "Payne," checking his own seating assignment.
His finger stopped.
Three rows ahead of him. Center stage.
Speaker: J.H. - Director, Project Daedalus (W.D. Labs)
Adam narrowed his eyes. "J.H.?"
He took another drink. "No," he muttered, shaking his head. "Jessye? Impossible. She doesn't have the stomach for the stage. It must be some new hire capitalizing on the family name. Just another vulture."
He dismissed the thought, burying the niggling suspicion under a layer of arrogance.
But his hand shook as he set the glass down. The ghost was taking shape, and for the first time in his life, Adam Payne was afraid of what he was about to see.
---
