Patricia's eyes crinkle as if she heard what I didn't say.
"I should let you escape," she says, finishing the last of her whiskey. "Before Morrison spots us and decides we need to take part."
"Self-preservation. I respect that."
She squeezes my arm once, brief and warm, and I let her. The touch doesn't make me flinch. That feels like progress. That feels like something.
Then she slips back into the crowd with the practiced ease of someone who knows exactly how many conversations constitute due diligence before retreat becomes acceptable, and I'm alone again.
I turn back toward the ballroom, glass raised to my lips, though I haven't actually drunk anything in ten minutes.
The back of my neck prickles.
I go still.
Not the freeze-response, not the kind that shuts my body down whenhisvoice got that particular edge. This is different. Awareness crawling across my shoulders and down my back. The gut-deep certainty that someone is watching.
You're paranoid. You're always paranoid. There are two hundred peoplehere,and any of them could be looking in your direction.
My gaze sweeps the room, anyway. Clusters of judges and attorneys, everyone angled toward their conversational partners or the buffet tables. Morrison holds court near the podium. Whitmore has cornered some poor clerk by the champagne fountain.
Nothing unusual. Nothing—
There.
East side of the ballroom, half-swallowed by shadow near one of the marble columns. A man. Tall. Dark suit that feels wrong for this crowd, too functional, no designer label peacocking. He's not mingling, not holding a drink, not performing any of the social rituals that justify presence at an event like this.
He's just standing there.
The stillness registers first. Not frozen.Contained.Even from here I can see it in the set of his shoulders, the way he holds himself like something coiled and waiting.
Was he watching me?
My heart kicks against my ribs.
Recognition tugs at the edge of my memory. The silhouette. The way he stands. I know this. Iknowthis.
No. You're projecting. You're tired andstressed,and your brain is finding patterns that aren't there.
My fingers tighten on the glass, condensation slicking my palm. I look away. Force myself to breathe and count to three.
When I look back, the space by the column is empty.
See? Nothing. No one. You're jumping at shadows.
My heart won't settle.
I scan the crowd again, slower this time, checking faces, expressions, anyone paying too much attention. Nothing. He'sgone. Vanished into the dim corners and milling bodies like he was never there. Just exhaustion, paranoia, and the low-level anxiety I've been carrying for years, all conspiring to make me see threats in shadows.
Get it together, Angelina. You're a federal judge, not a frightened girl.
I drain the club soda. It tastes like nothing, and then I try not to show my shock at actually drinking it.
But my body knows something my brain won't give me.
And the watched feeling doesn't leave.
The garage door closes behind me with a mechanical groan, sealing out the early May chill, but I don't move to get out of the car.