“If anyone’s watching, they’ll know we’re here,” he says. “That’s the point.”
He’s right. Sometimes the visible guard deters more than the hidden one.
“Roger that. You joining the nine o’clock?”
“Negative. Alicia’s got a nine-thirty. Wouldn’t let me follow her, so driving her was the compromise.”
“She still resisting?”
“She’s not a fan.”
I smile as I end the call. A woman like Alicia Morgan doesn’t admit weakness. She draws lines everywhere she can—no follow cars, no sitting in on meetings—then quietly moves the line when something rattles her. That open liftgate rattled her more than she’ll say.
Back at the house, I log into the secure portal. Hudson’s face fills one square, Jake another, Quinn’s bright eyes and glasses a third.
“Aren’t you two in the same place?” I ask.
“We are,” Quinn says. “But this is faster.”
Hudson nods. “Quick update. No movement on the Delacroix investigation. Our source says his wife’s now listed as a person of interest.”
Jake whistles. “Bet that happened five minutes after they called it a homicide.”
“She wasn’t at the event, right?” I ask.
“No,” Quinn says. “Rock-solid alibi—league tennis match that morning. But that doesn’t rule out a hire.”
“Wouldn’t be the first,” Hudson mutters. “Jake?”
Jake leans back, casual as ever. “Been making the rounds—coffee shops, DC watering holes. Talked to a reporter from The Hill. Says the congressional inquiry’s yesterday’s news. Focus has shifted to Argentina’s bailout and that public-land housing bill.”
“That makes no sense,” Quinn says. “Urban areas need housing, not national forests.”
Jake grins. “Since when has logic led the charge?”
They keep talking politics, but my mind drifts back to Jessica—her quick glance across the street, the man’s neutral face. Something about it itches.
And if I’m being honest, my mind also drifts to the way Alicia’s fingers traced my collarbone Sunday night. The sound she made when I?—
“Noah? You still with us?”
Hudson’s voice snaps me back. Jake’s grinning like he knows exactly where my head went.
“Yeah. Sorry. Thought I heard something.”
“All clear on your end?” Hudson asks.
“All clear.” Mostly. If you don’t count the fact that I can’t stop thinking about my principal in ways that would get me fired off any other detail.
“Good. Regroup next week.”
Quinn wraps with financial accounts tied to Magpie’s network, then we disconnect.
I don’t mention Jessica’s coffee run. Gabe has the images. If he sees her or the sedan near Alicia’s office again, we’ll revisit.
The rest of the day slides into rhythm. Seven-mile run—harder than usual, pushing until my lungs burn and my thoughts finally quiet. Kickboxing at the gym, where I can hit something and pretend I’m not thinking about the curve of Alicia’s hip or the way she said my name.
It doesn’t work. By the time I’m showering off, I’ve replayed Sunday night three times. The way she looked up at me. The way she tasted. The moment she transformed back into the crisis manager, walls snapping into place like she could compartmentalize anything—including me.