Her voice chimes faintly in the background. “Thank you, Alicia. I feel so much better.”
“Not a problem,” I lie, rising from my desk.
The clock on my monitor shows the time: 3:33 p.m. I do a double-take. Repeating numbers have always snagged my attention—numerology’s quiet language, patterns the universe uses to communicate if you’re willing to look. Alignment. Protection. A reminder the universe is pervasive, even if I don’t want to believe in omens.
Chapter
Two
Noah
The Federal-style home sits on a corner in Georgetown’s East Village; its black door set back behind a stretch of brick sidewalk, still damp from last night’s rain. Two slender trees stand behind an iron fence, roots pushing through frost-cracked brick. A side gate opens to a narrow carport. Real estate gold.
From a security standpoint, it’s a nightmare.
Too many windows. Too many entry points. The side glass panes beside the door offer a clear view straight through the house. Two more windows sit equidistant to each side of the front door, all four windows at climbable height. On the side street, four more climbable windows face the curb. In back, a low brick wall encloses a yard lined with glass doors that eat half the first floor. Pretty—and easily accessible.
Cold air carries the faint scent of chimney smoke and diesel from the delivery truck idling a block over. November has done its work on the trees—the elms bare, the oaks holding their last brown leaves—but the ivy clings to the brick, thick enough to hide a man standing flush against the wall. The street is quiet—only the soft hiss of passing tires, the distant bark of a dog.
Georgetown’s East Village is safe, on paper. But if someone wanted Alicia Morgan or her daughter, this corner makes it easy. A van could pull up, grab the target, and vanish before the alarm thrusts the police department into action.
My gaze scales the three-story brick facade. They said townhome, but this place stands alone, wide and solid. Maybe the term applies because it shares a brick fence with the adjacent home, but by local standards, this is luxury.
I lift my phone and take perimeter shots for the team. If she’s a high-value target, she needs to move. No system on earth makes this secure. Corner property. Open sightlines. Six, maybe eight, rooftops with clear sniper angles. All it takes is time.
I ring the bell once. Wait. Ring again.
No answer.
She’s supposed to be home. I could circle the block, check the rear approach, but from here I can already monitor both the gate and door. Another vulnerability.
Intersection cams might have visual coverage. I’ll ask Quinn to pull the CCTV feed.
Footsteps click beyond the wood. Then the lock turns.
She opens the door dressed for business—silk blouse, tailored slacks, heels that bring her closer to six feet. Dark hair past her shoulders, blue eyes that hold mine for exactly two seconds before she extends her hand. “Noah.”
I’ve seen her in briefings. Watched her manage a room the way other people manage individual conversations—effortlessly, and with complete awareness of everyone in it. Knowing that didn’t prepare me for her at close range.
I take her hand. Her grip is firm, professional. She lets go quickly. Everything about her reads controlled. Composed. The gold necklace, the careful makeup, the way she stands in the doorway without stepping back to let me in yet—this is someone used to managing impressions.
The staircase rises behind her, elegant and imposing. I can see through the entire first floor from the front door. Beautiful. Vulnerable.
“Come in. I was on the phone with Dorian.” She says the name like it explains everything. It does. “He mentioned you’ll be covering night shift. I’ll set you up in the basement guest bedroom.”
I pause. Hudson’s instructions had been clear: nearby surveillance, not on-site. But I’m not about to argue in her foyer.
“That works,” I say, following her through the wide hall, toward a kitchen with windows to the back courtyard.
Inside, sunlight spills across dark maple floors, reflecting off stainless steel fixtures and glass walls. The scent of fresh coffee lingers, cut with citrus—some type of cleaner, maybe lemon oil.
The back wall is almost entirely glass, overlooking a patio where ivy shivers in the breeze. To the left, a dining room behind glass doors; the white, modern kitchen gleams beneath pendant lights; down the hall, twin living areas flank the foyer—one formal, one casual.
It’s minimalist, curated, and far too open. Too exposed.
“You have a beautiful home,” I say.
“Thank you.” Her gaze flicks to my boots, then through the window where I’ve parked in the short driveway that runs along the side of her home.