She would have emptied the bank if that wouldn’t have required notifying both brother and mother that the stash had been compromised. It was a safeguard meant to ensure the others didn’t get screwed over by expecting to rely on matériel that no longer existed. No way in hell was she giving brother dearest that kind of heads-up on her movements. Same went for Clare. But fail to follow through and Clare would make it a priority to change the locks and codes on every hideaway from here to Timbuktu.

She couldn’t take it all, but half was fair game.

By taking no more than half she could leave Jack out of the notification scheme and put off letting Clare know until after this whole thing was finished.

Jill slipped a thousand euros into one of the extra envelopes made available for the purpose and slid the envelope beneath the boarded-up door that separated this room from the house itself.

That was the arrangement.

The money let those on the other side know that whoever had entered belonged there. Without it, they’d alert Clare, and Clare would assume the hideaway had been burned, and it’d be a fantastic way to fuck with her if it wouldn’t also mean losing access to all of Clare’s hideaways and drops forever, and even she wasn’t “don’t give a shit” crazy enough to pick that kind of fight.

Jill moved to the closet and pulled the doors open.

She’d left the airport buxom and blond.

She was back to being a brown-haired tomboy now.

She’d traveled light, as they always had, planning to pick up what she needed as she went, but the American killers and Russian game players had run out the clock faster than expected, so she’d come for weapons, cash, and ID, but mostly she’d come for Clare’s costuming.

Appearance was a better weapon than any bullet or blade. That’s what Clare had taught, and it’s what had made her dangerous, even to her children.

She could be anyone, anything.

Sometimes it was hard to tell where the real Clare began or ended.

Sometimes it was hard to tell if even Clare knew.

“All self-betrayal comes from mannerism, habit, appearance, or speech,” she’d say. “Of those, appearance is easiest to control, and only an idiot would let that be what gave them up.”

There wasn’t much from the past worth claiming.

This, though, was hard to let go.

Jill liked the high, the power it gave to slip between persona and personality and play with perception, but there was a particular thrill in moving through enemy territory while in disguise that made everyday interaction feel like cosplay.

She lived for this shit.