Podczas mojej wystawnej gali urodzinowej, mój mąż zrobił dokładnie to, co kazała mu matka – wstał i publicznie mnie upokorzył na oczach wszystkich. Sala ucichła, czekając, aż się rozpłaczę albo ucieknę. Zamiast tego, wstałam, poprawiłam sukienkę i zaczęłam się śmiać. Zamarł w miejscu, a jego twarz odpłynęła.

Obiekt do przechowywania poufnych informacji.

Bezpieczne pomieszczenie, w którym kryją się sekrety.

Przez ostatnie trzy lata mój SCIF był szafą pełną butów wartych pięćdziesiąt tysięcy dolarów, których nigdy nie nosiłam.

Zhakowałem.

Skopiowałem.

Zalogowałem się.

Przyglądałem się księgom rachunkowym, jakby to była trasa zaopatrzeniowa wroga.

A kiedy miałem już dość – kiedy zagraniczne konta, firmy-wydmuszki i zakamuflowane przelewy zostały w końcu połączone – zrobiłem to, co robią żołnierze.

Wezwałem posiłki.

Nazywał się David Miller.

Agent specjalny.

FBI.

Zanim został członkiem władz federalnych, służył w armii.

Służyliśmy w Kandaharze w tej samej grupie zadaniowej.

To on wyciągnął mnie z płonącego Humvee, gdy ładunek wybuchowy zamienił nasz konwój w kulę ognia.

Był jedyną osobą w Bostonie, która wiedziała, że ​​Heidi Austin nie była żoną-trofeum.

Była operatorką.

Po południu Victoria kazała mi wcześniej stawić się na gali, bo oczywiście tak zrobiła.

Musiała uczynić z gościa honorowego obsługę wydarzenia.

Ale zanim znów wkroczyłem do jej kontrolowanego świata, pojechałem na obrzeża południowego Bostonu.

Joe’s Diner stał tam niczym uparta relikwia.

Neon sign buzzing between JOE’S and JOE.

The air smelled like bacon grease and cheap coffee and the ghost of cigarettes from the 90s.

To me, it smelled like freedom.

I slid into a booth in the back.

A waitress with towering hair and a name tag that read DORIS popped gum and asked what I wanted.

“Black coffee,” I said. “And cherry pie. Warm.”

When it arrived, I didn’t eat delicately.

I didn’t worry about spoons.

I took a bite like a starving person.

Sugar and tartness exploded on my tongue.

Forbidden comfort.

Then the bell above the door jingled.

A man walked in wearing a faded Carhartt jacket and a Red Sox cap pulled low.

He looked like a construction worker.

That was the point.

He slid into the booth across from me.

“Captain,” he nodded.

“Agent,” I replied.

His eyes scanned my face the way a medic scans a wound.

“You look like hell, Austin,” he said.

He wasn’t being rude.

He was assessing damage.

“She’s starving you.”

“I’m fine,” I lied.

Because soldiers lie when survival requires it.

I reached into my purse and set a Chanel powder compact on the table.

Under the beige powder was a hollow.

Inside the hollow was a micro SD card.

Five years of fraud.

Five years of payments.

Five years of proof.

Miller covered the compact with his hand.

He didn’t open it.

He didn’t need to.

He knew the drill.

“The ledger is in there,” I said quietly. “Offshore accounts. The doctor’s payoffs. Trust fund embezzlement.”

Miller’s jaw tightened.

“This is good work,” he said. “With this, we can build a RICO case. Freeze assets. Indict Victoria for fraud, money laundering—maybe conspiracy.”

A tremor of hope tried to rise.

Then his voice shifted.

“But.”

The word landed like a boot.

“A financial investigation takes time,” he said. “Months. Maybe a year. As soon as we freeze accounts, their lawyers swarm. They bury us.”

“And James?” I asked.

Miller’s eyes hardened.

“If Victoria smells smoke, she moves him,” he said. “She has legal control over his medical decisions. She could ship him to a private facility overseas tomorrow.”

My stomach went cold.

Overseas.

Vanished.

“So what do we need?” I asked.

Miller exhaled.

He reached across the table and covered my hand with his.

Rough.

Calloused.

Warm.

Not controlling.

Not limp.

The grip of a brother.

“You okay?” he asked softly. “Really?”

For a moment, the kindness almost cracked me.

I swallowed it down.

“I’m surviving,” I said. “Tell me the plan.”

Miller’s face went back to agent mode.

“We need exigent circumstances,” he said. “A reason to enter that house tonight without waiting for a judge. More than probable cause. An active threat to life or limb.”

I understood.

The silence between us thickened.

“You want me to let them hit me,” I said.

Miller’s jaw flexed.

“I don’t want you to do anything,” he growled. “I hate this plan. But if you walk in with financial evidence, they’ll laugh and call lawyers. If they strike you—assault on a federal officer. Immediate arrest. No bail for at least twenty-four hours.”

I stared at my pie.

The sweetness turned to ash.

“What about capturing it?” I asked.

Miller pulled a small velvet box from his pocket.

Inside was a diamond brooch.

It looked gaudy.

Exactly like something Victoria would approve of.

“It’s not real,” he said. “It’s a wire. High-fidelity audio. Transmits to our van. We’ll be two blocks away.”

I lifted it.

The diamonds caught the diner’s fluorescent light.

A weapon disguised as jewelry.

“Rules of engagement,” Miller said. “You push Victoria until she snaps. You cannot strike first. You take the hit. Then you say the code word.”

“What’s the word?”

His eyes locked on mine.

“Done,” he said. “You say ‘I’m done,’ and we come in.”

I pinned the brooch to my blouse.

“If James hits me,” I said, voice low, “he won’t know what he’s doing.”

“We’ll sort that out later,” Miller said. “But it has to be physical. It has to happen.”

I thought of Victoria’s eyes that morning.

Desperate.

Desperate people get violent.

I stood.

Left a twenty on the table.

Enough for pie and a generous tip.

Miller rose too and grabbed my shoulder.

“If it goes south—if they pull a weapon—you get out. Screw the case. You get out. That’s an order.”

I looked at him.

I smiled, but it didn’t reach my eyes.

“Bones heal,” I said. “But if I walk away and leave James there, my honor won’t ever heal.”

Outside, the wind cut through my jacket.

I got back into my car.

The brooch sat on the passenger seat like a small glittering bomb.

It was time to go back.

Time to put on the dress.

Time to put on the smile.