“Phone the airport, please. Let my pilot know I’ll be forty-five minutes late.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And have the Jaguar waiting; I’ll take it to the plane.”
“Yes, sir.”
“My overnight bag?—”
“Is waiting downstairs, sir.”
“My tux?—”
“In a garment bag, sir. Downstairs as well.”
“And the Picasso?—”
“Is boxed, wrapped, and waiting downstairs. Sir.”
Nilsson is as warm as winter in Uppsala, but he keeps my life running smoothly. He’s resolutely blind to everything that happens in this house—both the legal activities and the illegal ones. He renews his non-disclosure agreements every year on the anniversary of his employment. I pay him like he’s the Chief Operating Officer of a Fortune 500 company which, in effect, he is.
I allow myself an extra three minutes in the shower, spending the time with my head down, my arms braced against the marble wall and my back pummeled by water hot enough to brew coffee. I turn the flow to ice-cold before I step out, more awake than if I’d managed my usual four hours of sleep.
When I return to the bedroom, Nilsson has been at work. My regular breakfast waits on the nightstand in a stainless-steel tumbler. I know the Greek yogurt has been boosted with flaxseeds, protein powder, and collagen, all blended into almond milk. Kale turns it bright green.
When Nilsson first started working for me, he laid out my clothes, but it only took him a week to realize that was a waste of time. My closet is filled with identical outfits—bespoke-tailored black pants in winter-weight wool, summer-weight wool, and linen; black jeans; black cashmere turtlenecks; blacksilk T-shirts; and black cotton dress shirts for the few times I absolutely can’t escape wearing a tie. I own three tuxes.
Nilsson’s waiting at the front door with my laptop. The computer is a custom-designed ruggedized machine, capable of operating anywhere from the North Pole to the equator, in the eye wall of a hurricane or the heart of a Saharan haboob. It weighs seven pounds, but there are some things a smartphone just can’t do.
“Safe travels, sir,” Nilsson says as he holds my wool overcoat.
“I’ll be back by noon tomorrow,” I say.
“Of course, sir.” He’d say the same if I told him I was leaving for a five-year safari. Or if I said I’d be returning at six tonight with an army platoon and a marching band.
Nilsson has already stowed my belongings in the trunk—overnight bag, garment bag, and gift-wrapped priceless Picasso all neatly laid out so I can see he hasn’t forgotten a thing. I add the laptop, then climb behind the wheel.
The Jaguar purrs to life, and I glide up to my iron security gate. Without conscious thought, I glance at the mirror mounted on the right post, confirming no one is lurking on the brick sidewalk. With that coast clear, I check the left mirror.
Fuck.
She’s sitting on the sidewalk, cross-legged, her back braced against the steel-reinforced post of the gate. Her hair is longer than the last time I saw her, past her shoulders, dyed a bright peacock blue. She’s wearing blue jeans that look like they haven’t seen a washing machine in a year. Her sweatshirt—Georgetown Basketball—is two sizes too big for her.
A bruise purples her right cheekbone.
I kill the car and walk over to the gate.
“Nutmeg,” I say.
“Hey, Cocoa Puff.” She’s the only person in the world who calls me that.
I cut her off, because I know what she’s about to ask. “You can’t stay here.”
She purses her lips in a practiced pout but winces when her cheek stretches beneath the bruise. “I only need a night.”
I shake my head. “Sorry.”
“I’ll sleep in the garage.”
