“Goodnight, Alicia.”
When I climb the stairs, his calm, unflinching presence follows me—along with the memory of how very different he was last night when that control finally broke.
Chapter
Fifteen
Noah
Tuesday morning, I’m parked down the street, waiting for Alicia to pull out. It’s 7:05 on the dot. Like clockwork. I know other things about her timing now too. How long it takes her breathing to settle after she comes. The exact moment her walls go back up. How she looks in the morning light with her hair still mussed and her defenses down.
Focus, Bennett.
The punctuality—admirable for a CEO. Dangerous for someone with a target on her back. Routine makes you predictable, and predictable makes you vulnerable.
The plan’s simple: follow her to the office where Gabe’s on duty. I’ve got a nine a.m. call with Hudson, then a run while the morning’s still sharp. I need the run. Need to work off the restless energy that’s been building since Sunday night. Since Alicia.
Her Rivian glides from the driveway. I let two cars pass before easing into traffic. As I roll by her corner lot, I glance at the house. With the blinds up, it’s a fishbowl—clean lines, big windows, nowhere to hide.
I know which room is hers now. Know the view from her bedroom window, the softness of her sheets, the way afternoon light filters through those curtains. Know things I shouldn’t know about a client. Except she’s not exactly just a client anymore, is she?
The fishbowl layout bothers me more now. Makes observation too easy. Maybe that doesn’t concern her. When working from home, she spends most of her time on the second floor. Still, it makes me uneasy in ways that have nothing to do with the job.
We’ve had no credible threats. She’s agreed to appear before a Senate subcommittee in a closed-door session—untelevised, more about managing political fallout than pursuing justice. If she’s called by prosecution into the case against the man who extorted the senator, that’ll be public. If there’s a televised congressional hearing regarding the deceased chief of staff, that’ll be a bigger deal.
My take? Visibility keeps her safe. The guilty prefer shadows, not spotlights. These aren’t mobsters; they’re polished power brokers with donors and photo ops to protect. They’ll bury evidence long before they risk a hit that invites the FBI to dinner.
At least, that’s what my gut says—though my gut didn’t see the White House Chief of Staff moonlighting as an intel broker either.
Alicia drops Stella at school, right on schedule—7:25—and turns toward her office. Clockwork.
At 7:40 she pulls into the parking lot at Morgan & Company, one of those bland beige blocks that could house anything from accountants to assassins. Gabe’s already there. He gives me a nod; I return it and drive a block up before looping back toward her house. I want to be on a secure line for the call.
That’s when a flash of blonde catches my eye outside the corner coffee shop—Novel Grounds.
Jessica.
I slide into a spot across the street. Pharmaceutical sales reps meet clients everywhere, but the coincidence prickles.
Through the windshield, I watch her exit the shop with two coffees. She moves with purpose, heading to a sedan parked four spaces down. The driver lowers his window. She leans in, speaking low. No smile. No small talk.
I lift my phone and zoom. Not Richard. The man’s younger—mid-thirties, light brown hair, average build. I snap two photos. Jessica gestures once, quick, precise. Then she straightens and looks across the street.
I freeze, turning my head just enough that she gets a side view, not a face. With the glare on the glass, she probably can’t make out detail. This block’s busy enough that a parked car shouldn’t raise suspicion.
Jessica walks off. A block over, a Rivian that’s identical to Alicia’s, only a different color, flashes as she unlocks it. That’s her destination. I send the photos to Gabe.
The sedan makes a U-turn, heading the opposite direction. I capture a shot of Jessica’s license plate and send that too.
My phone rings seconds later.
“What’ve we got?” Gabe asks.
“Probably nothing,” I say. “Richard Whitmore’s girlfriend brought coffee to a guy in a sedan—mid-thirties, average build. Thirty-second chat, then gone.”
“Copy. I’ll keep an eye out.”
“Good. You keeping a low profile?”