They have a plan.
Who are you? The thought barely forms before they tap the frame. I brace for the shriek of alarms, the explosion of red lights, the pounding boots of security. Nothing.
I glance wildly around, heart hammering, but all I hear is the honky-tonk twang drifting up from the gala.Silent alarm.By the time the realization hits, the figure in black is gone.This would never happen to Bond.
Chapter 4
Cybil
Dallas, Texas
Monday night
This cannot be happening.
I skirt around a corner and dart into the women’s bathroom, slamming the third stall door shut and twisting the lock. I attempt to jump onto the toilet seat—but my right foot skids across the slick plastic. I hear the splash a second before cold toilet water soaks my foot.
Welp, these shoes are going into the fire.
Swallowing a gag, I fight the urge to scream and extract my foot from its questionable bath. My pulse hasn’t stopped battering my throat since I got caught at the door, and now I’m standing in some knockoff version of Karate Kid’s crane pose on a public toilet, trying to figure out who the heck that man was.
At first I assumed he was museum security. But he didn’t call for backup. Didn’t reach for a radio. Which means... something is wrong. Was he private security for Ramirez? A friend of Faux-Diesel?
All I caught was a glimpse—tall, broad shoulders, black tux. Absolutely zero identifying features that could separate him from the sea of overpriced cologne and cuff links roaming the gala tonight.
I wait—counting out ninety agonizing seconds—before stepping off the toilet and unlocking the stall door. I pause with every movement,holding my breath to listen, but all I hear is the pounding of my own heartbeat. And the occasional drip of toilet water sliding off my toes.
I can’t hide here forever.
Mr. Edmond has probably noticed my absence by now. With any luck, claiming I was in the ladies’ room won’t raise too many questions. But if I’m going to pull this off, I need to leave. Now. And not get caught.
I grab for the toilet paper to mop up my foot and find... one ply?Of course.It takes half a roll of the transparent stuff to dry my foot before I shimmy back into my gown, hide the bag again, and slip the lipstick recorder back into my clutch. First attempt: botched. But I don’t give up.
No matter what messes I get myself into, it’s hard to complain when the money hits my account. I need this paycheck to pay my rent and my student loans, to help my mom, and if I’m lucky, to maybe finally replace the underwear I’ve owned since college.It’s the little things.
I crack the door an inch. No one’s waiting for me.
Instead of risking the main stairs and a collision with Faux-Diesel, I opt for the side stairwell. There’s still a chance I’ll run into museum security, but back in my gown, I feel armored. One thing Mr. Edmond has taught me: Money buys invisibility. Nobody questions a well-dressed woman.
Moonlight spills through the windows, casting a silver glow over the gala. Bart Jennings is dancing across the stage, the crowd singing along, the whole place vibrating with energy. I should be focused on getting back to Mr. Edmond. But instead, it’s the server carrying a tray of chocolate desserts who captures my full attention.
Surely I have time for one little choco—
“He won’t die. But he’ll wish he had.”
The harsh whisper halts me in my heels, pulling my attention to a door that’s been left slightly ajar. I glance back over my shoulder, knowing I should get back to Mr. Edmond. Instead, curiosity wins. It always does. It’s what keeps the bills paid.
“Just one or two drops. I promise he’ll never put his hands on you again.”
I ease the door open and find two female servers crammed inside what looks like an oversized broom closet. The brunette spins around, shielding the blonde behind her. I catch a glimpse—smeared makeup, teary eyes.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
The brunette’s eyes flash. “A guy out there got handsy with her. She asked him to stop. He took it as a challenge.”
I shift my focus to the blonde. Her chin is tucked as if she’s embarrassed.
“Are you hurt?” I ask.
