“You can’t park there overnight. If you’re blocking the sidewalk, you’ll get ticketed. The carport fits two, but my daughter plays basketball after school. Once she’s in bed, I’ll move my car so you can park behind me.”
I can think of bigger logistical issues than parking, but I nod. Hudson can get the report later.
“I wasn’t expecting you today,” she says, descending the stairs to the floor below, the faint spice of her perfume trailing behind her. “Forgive the chaos.”
“No problem.” That’s what I say, but I see nothing out of place that would indicate chaos of any kind.
In the basement, the air temperature drops, and instead of lemon, I pick up notes of detergent and fabric softener. Laundry.
“You’ll stay here. It’s a better place to set up than the street. Besides, street parking can be a challenge.”
The guest room is neat, the sheets crisp, pulled back over the comforter in a hotel-worthy turn-down display. Across the hall, a bathroom. To one side, an exercise room; to the other, a den with a heather-gray sectional, oversized TV, and grasscloth walls, their texture catching the recessed light. The thick carpet muffles our steps. A bar gleams under recessed lighting. No chaos in sight.
“That fridge holds wine,” she says. “The other’s stocked with water and soda. Use the kitchen upstairs if you’d rather. Laundry room’s there.” She points. “Cleaning service comes Thursdays. They handle laundry, too.”
“That won’t be necessary.” She might think I’m living here, but that’s not actually the plan. I have an apartment in NoMa—North of Massachusetts Avenue, close enough. I’m night shift.
She doesn’t respond, simply climbs the stairs ahead of me. I keep my eyes on the hallway.
We continue, past the main floor I entered into, and up an additional flight of stairs.
Up here, the light grows warmer.
She gestures toward an open doorway. “My bedroom.” She points in the opposite direction. “When I work from home, I work in there.”
She points to a glass-walled home office that mirrors her office in Manhattan.
KOAN has been running daytime protective services for her about a month now. No specific threats identified, but the congressional investigation is gaining traction—and the people it’s likely to expose aren’t minor players. Elena Vasquez was White House chief of staff. The names connected to her network reach high enough that even the president isn’t above scrutiny. Anyone tied to the original case becomes a potential target, and Alicia Morgan is tied directly—she managed the senator’s crisis, she knows names, she’ll likely be called to testify. Until recently she’d insisted nine to five coverage was sufficient. Hudson disagreed. So did I.
The hallway walls are lined with photos—sun-drenched candids of her and a dark-haired little girl with freckles and a wide smile. Unexpected warmth against all the white.
“My daughter’s bedroom is upstairs,” she says, pointing to the next flight. “Two rooms and a sitting area. One’s her hangout space, one her bedroom. The top floor’s hers.”
“That’s good,” I say. “Safest floor.”
She tilts her head, either as a question or in annoyance. I’m not sure which.
“And that one?” I gesture to a closed door beside her room.
“My closet.” A small, satisfied smile. “Converted bedroom.”
Of course. Control, order, design.
She steps into her office, opens a drawer, and hands me a set of keys. “These open all exterior doors.”
“You have an alarm.”
“Yes.” She retrieves a black folder, passes it across the desk. “Instructions, codes, contacts. I only know mine—you can set your own.”
Her movements are smooth, efficient, but a slight tightness at the corners of her mouth betrays fatigue.
I clock the framed photos on her desk. Her daughter—blue eyes, freckles, messy pigtails, joy unfiltered. A reminder that somewhere beneath all this polish, warmth exists.
“If you need anything, contact Caroline,” she says, then hesitates. “Or Hudson. I mix them up sometimes.”
“Hudson’s my supervisor.” When she mentions Caroline, she must be referring to Caroline Moore, KOAN’s founder. Dorian is her husband, a billionaire who has been in the news periodically over the decades thanks to his political family. That must be the Dorian she mentioned earlier.
“Right.” She nods. “Let Hudson know.”