It’s weird the things I notice now since working for Earl Edmond. Like how someone stands and walks a little differently when they have a gun tucked against their body. Or how someone can donate millions of dollars to a charity with one hand and pay off arms dealers with the other. Or that secret conversations don’t always happen in shady nightclubs or in dark Italian restaurants over a plate of spaghetti like they do in the movies.
Sometimes they happen in law offices, on a park bench, at a child’s birthday party, and surprisingly—more frequently than I ever imagined—at charity galas.
Like tonight.
Bart Jennings kicks off a rousing song that electrifies the crowd, andit’s my cue to sneak away. I check my left where my boss, Earl Edmond, and his son Sebastian are talking with the hosts of tonight’s fundraiser to support the South Dallas Community Center. I glance around at the A-list of affluent guests interspersed with professional athletes, actors, and musicians, all gathered in the name of helping those less fortunate. The cynical part of me wonders if any of these people would be as philanthropic if they couldn’t just write a check.
Not tonight’s problem.
No. Tonight’s problem is a six-foot-something bald man who is armed and standing between me and the third-floor bathroom. There’s no way he’s museum security, which means he’s not here to protect the art.
I toy with the ring on my thumb, locking onto my target. With a silentSorry about yournight, I time my move perfectly—elbowing into the path of a server balancing a tray of freshly poured champagne. The poor guy doesn’t stand a chance. The tray tilts, the glasses fly, and a symphony of shattering crystal cuts through the noise. The music drowns most of the chaos, but the mess still pulls the attention of the nearest staff—and, more importantly, Faux-Diesel.
Not wasting a second, I slip around him while his back is turned and hustle up the stairs to the third level. At the top, a flash of movement makes me pause and press into a corner. A handful of museum security guards are on patrol tonight—two of them prowling the roped-off levels. No weapons, but they don’t have to be armed to ruin my night. I check my watch, marking the time. When I peek around the corner again, both guards have vanished toward level four.
I slip into the women’s restroom at the end of the hall, checking the stalls before ducking into the third one. The black floor-length gown I borrowed pools around my feet as I wriggle out of it. It’s not as flashy as the low-cut, glittery numbers floating around the gallery, but that’s the point. I’m not here to stand out. Blending in? I’ve had a lifetime of practice. It used to bother me. I used to feel like I was fading. Now? Now it’s survival.
Now it helps me work as acovert asset—to collect intel on corruptindividuals and businesses that prey on the innocent.Another thing I’m painfully experienced in.I twist the ring, grounding myself in the promise I made a long time ago never to be powerless again.
The bathroom walls vibrate with a twangy anthem about a man, his pickup truck, and a lifetime of questionable decisions. I’m counting on the charity gala’s headliner to distract my boss long enough that he won’t realize I’m gone. My elbow clips the side of the cramped stall, sending a sharp jolt through my arm, but I grit my teeth and focus—carefully draping the gown over the edge of the stall. Underneath, I’m squeezed into shapewear—supposedly more practical for movement than a ball gown.Breathing, apparently, is optional.
I rip a few squares of toilet paper and layer them across the seat. Stepping out of my heels, I climb up, balancing on the questionable surface like a very determined circus performer. On my toes, I press up on the ceiling panel and start feeling around. After a few seconds of swiping at—and collecting—a truly gross amount of dust, I find no sign of the backpack.
I wobble on the toilet seat, and the confidence I had two minutes ago—when I seamlessly snuck away from Mr. Edmond and the gala—is melting into panic. Did I pick the wrong stall? The wrong bathroom? Sweat slides down my back as I mentally replay Athena’s instructions.
Third-level restroom. Conservation Gallery. Third stall.
Check, check, check. So where’s the stupid—ah! My fingers catch on a nylon strap and I tug the bag down. Hopping to the cold tile floor, I unzip the backpack and yank out a pair of black leggings and a matching top. I’d tried to convince Athena that it would lookwayless suspicious if I was caught wandering the halls in a gown instead of dressed like a cat burglar. Shockingly, she disagreed.
And really, who was I to argue? Athena—definitely not her real name—was my handler. The woman paying me to spy on my boss. His employees. His business. And business associates who might be engaging in illegal practices. The same woman I’m pretty sure would pull a Houdini if I ever got caught.
“Just don’t get caught,” I mutter under my breath, tugging the shirtover my head. Or as my mother used to say,“Don’t write a check you can’t cash.”As a kid, I thought she meant it literally. I’d watch her scribble checks for rent, groceries, or utilities—only to come home to our stuff packed in boxes on a porch, or to have our heat cut off in the middle of winter, or to be escorted out of the grocery store empty-handed.
It wasn’t until middle school that I understood what shereallymeant. By then, we’d moved more than a dozen times. I’d finally made a real friend who invited me into a world of home-cooked meals, parents who asked about homework, and the security of having a permanent address. I begged Mom not to move us. Even promised to get babysitting and pet-sitting jobs to help with the bills. My mom wrote me a check she couldn’t cash—and six months later, we were gone. In college, I understood what ADHD had stolen from her—how her symptoms weren’t just quirky or forgetful, but the kind that lived at the far end of the spectrum. How it wasn’t neglect or malice. It was chaos she couldn’t outrun. But by then, all I craved was the safety and security of a permanent address.
I still do—just preferably not at the state penitentiary, if I get caught.
There’s a lull in the music rattling the museum’s walls, and I catch my breath. My pulse pounds a staccato against my ribs. I check my watch. Time’s slipping. I carefully fold my gown into the bag along with my heels, swapping them for a pair of black flats, and then pull a tube of Chanel lipstick from my silver sequined clutch. It slides easily into the pocket of the small gear pouch strapped to my wrist.
With the backpack stashed back in the ceiling, I give myself a quick glance in the mirror. For a second, the woman staring back at me doesn’t even look familiar. I shove down the anxious pinch twisting in my gut and force a small, reassuring smile. The nerves always show up in the minutes before the job, but they don’t stick around for long.
I’m ready. I’ve already walked the museum twice this week, logged the security patterns, and marked the blind spots. Now, it’s time to do my job.
“Find out why Earl Edmond is meeting with Lorenzo Ramirez.”
That, along with the instructions about the bag, were the only directives in Athena’s text. I don’t know everything about the company sheworks for, but I know enough to trust I’m working for the good guys. My job isn’t to understand what they plan to do with the information—just to get it and get out.
I step out of the bathroom and into the darkened hallway. Faux-Diesel should be back to guarding the stairwell, keeping curious guests away from this floor. If my timing’s right, the museum’s security guards should be busy one level up. That gives me just enough of a window to break into the office, plant the lipstick recorder, slip back into my dress, and make it back to the gala before the meeting starts. Just another night of light felonies and no arrests.I hope.
Beneath my feet, the floor thrums with the bass of the drums, and I time my steps to match. Under the dim glow of the gallery lights, it feels like every painting is watching me. Judging me. I hurry to the door of the Mayer Library and test the handle. Locked. “That would be too easy,” I mutter under my breath.
I slip the tension wrench and hook pick from my wrist pouch and drop to my knees. There are nights like tonight when the irony of my life feels almost laughable. A mountain of college debt for an education in how toprotectthe law—and here I am breaking it. They don’t teach you this kind of thing in any LSAT practice test. How to spy on your boss. Or one of his associates who...
“He’s killed for less.”
Two days ago, I overheard Mr. Edmond snapping at Sebastian behind his office door. Gruff words. Raw fear. I hadn’t caught much else—but the look in Mr. Edmond’s eyes when Sebastian stormed out told me everything I needed to know. This man they were meeting tonight was dangerous.
My hand slips. The hook pick scrapes against the metal, the sharp noise slicing through the quiet like a blade. I freeze. Below me, the rhythm of the music has shifted into a slow, mournful ballad. No heavy beat left to hide behind. The paintings are still staring. Especially the one closest to me. I squint at the tiny placard:Desperate Manby Gustave Courbet. It’s a portrait of a man clawing at his own hair, wide-eyed with pure, unhinged panic.
