"Crossing the street." Vanessa, barely a whisper. "She's on the front path."
Footsteps on concrete—slow, deliberate.
Angelina's hand closes on my arm. Her fingers dig in hard enough to bruise.
The footsteps reach the porch.
Stop.
Silence.
Then Vanessa's voice:
"She's at your door."
thirty
Angelina
Three knocks, evenly spaced. The knock of someone who expects to be let in.
We've been on the couch for the past hour. Waiting. Cole's thigh warm against mine, some late-night show neither of us is watching flickering on the TV. I've been finding excuses to touch him—shifting closer, brushing his arm, my body seeking anchors while my mind runs through everything that could go wrong.
"Showtime." His voice is barely a breath.
He stands. Moves toward the kitchen, positions himself at the opening between the rooms—visible from the foyer, impossible to miss. One bodyguard—the variable she already knows about.
I smooth my shirt. Stand. The novel I've been pretending to read falls to the cushion. Three days with this book, and I couldn't tell you a single character's name.
I cross to the front door. The knob is cool against my palm. My heartbeat runs steady and too fast, the kind of calm that comes from preparation rather than peace.
On the other side of this door stands a woman who has killed fourteen federal judges. Who left a flower on my desk with a countdown to my death.
I open the door.
Victoria Lockwood stands on my porch. Blue coat, pleasant professional smile. A silver thermos clutched in both hands like an offering.
"Judge Castellano." Her voice carries genuine warmth. Concern, even. "I'm so sorry to come by this late. I found something about the judge killings. I didn't want to wait until morning."
Her eyes move past me. Find Cole at the kitchen opening. She looks back at me without a flicker of concern.
I don't step back to let her in. Not yet.
"Dr. Lockwood. It's nearly midnight." I keep my voice level, the same tone I use when a witness is about to perjure themselves and doesn't realize I already know. "That's a lot of research for a toxicology expert. Why bring it to me instead of the FBI?"
"The FBI has been less than helpful." Her expression shifts, a micromovement, there and gone. "Leads that go nowhere. Agents who don't return calls. I thought perhaps a judge might have more success getting their attention."
She shifts the thermos. "I brought chamomile. You must be under so much stress with everything happening. I thought we could talk."
I hold her gaze. Search for the monster underneath the helpful colleague routine. There's only earnestness. Conviction. The absolute certainty of someone who believes she's doing the right thing.
That's what makes her dangerous. Not the poison. The faith.
"Come in." I step aside, staying out of arm's reach. My throat tightens around the words—I'm inviting a murderer across mythreshold, into the house where my daughter watches cartoons on Saturday mornings. "The living room is through there."
She crosses into my home. Passes Cole without a second glance, without slowing. She doesn't understand that she just turned her back on the most dangerous person in the room.
The door closes behind her with a soft click.