Page 54 of Trust

No one greets me when I step up to the counter. I slide a plastic business card across the surface showing a black cat with green eyes. The tiny old woman behind the desk, her sari crisp and spotless, doesn’t say a word as she presses it against a metallic cube. The cat’s eyes light up. The countertop splits and folds back, reminding me of Tower Bridge in London, revealing the passage. Nice trick.

She returns the card and gestures to the elevator tucked in the back. Bollywood music drifts faintly from somewhere, cheerful against the otherwise sterile space. It’s almost comical. The elevator takes me all the way up. A penthouse-style suite opens before me, floor-to-ceiling windows framing the city below.

I don’t see her, but I know she’s here.

The second I step forward, a stick comes down at me. I catch it just in time, twist, and pin my attacker against the wall, holding the stick across her shoulders. My lips end up inches from hers.

“Hi, Ananya,” I murmur.

She smirks. “You got slow.”

“You got predictable,” I shoot back and let go of the stick. She puts it back on the wall with the others. I’d clocked the gap the instant the elevator opened. She did get predictable.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” she asks, lashes lifting, her eyes searching for intent beneath the surface.

“I need your help,” I say plainly.

“And here I thought you came because you missed me.” Her fake pout doesn’t do anything for me.

“Maybe I did.” I pull a small packet from my jacket and hand it over. She takes it with her long black nails, dragging them lightly across my wrist as she stares me down. Then she peers at the packet, nose wrinkling.

“Take a closer look.”

She studies the label. The shift in her face is immediate. I knew this would land. She hasn’t touched this stuff since Montélimar. Best nougat in the world. Small-batch. Single shop. Untraceable unless you’d been there. I remember how she nearly lost her mind when she first tasted it.

“You were in France.” Not a question. “Fabrice. That was you?”

I give her a lopsided grin. Nobody’s going to miss that scum. His surprised gasp was cut short. One second he was nursing a Bordeaux in a café, watching the sun set over the Rhône. The next, he was cold meat on the cobblestones.

Her smirk curves slowly. “Impressive. What do you want?”

Right down to business.

She presses close, her chest brushing mine, an arm sliding past to tap the wall. A beep, and a hidden panel gives way to reveal a narrow staircase. Her ponytail sways as she sashays down. I follow.

The secret floor glows in neon blues and acid greens, filled with feeds of nearby streets, stock tickers, random code scrolls, and even the cliché Matrix rain. It looks like Wall Street crashed into a hacker’s fever dream. Pure Ananya. Too bad she couldn’t get rid of those fuckin’ military records. I bet she’s still sorry she failed us there.

“How’s Chris?” she asks, her voice too casual.

“Misses you,” I lie.

“I bet he does.”

You wish.

“If you’re here, it’s serious. What have you gotten yourself into this time?”

I lift my brows and clutch my chest, mock offended. “Only intel. Sealed file. Car accident. Six years ago.”

“Flavor?” she quips, fingers already flying over a console. “FBI or CIA?”

“Police.”

She gives me a questioning look. “You couldn’t handle that on your own?”

“Apparently not.” Sure, Annie, rub it in.

Her lips curl at the edges as she stays glued to the screen.