The sound of water still hissed from the master suite. Marcelline closed the door to her room, tucked the laundry back into the dryer and eased it shut, and considered Owen’s gym shoes by the door. That would never work. They were way too big. But she took his socks, still grotesquely damp, from the pile of towels and gym-bag flotsam that he’d left on the floor by the breakfast counter. His keys were there, too.

She’d never given much thought to Owen Haig when they’d worked together. Rich people and their minions were a staple in her life; their polish and bling and attitudes were wallpaper to her. But Owen’s beautiful silver Mercedes, with its muted orange calipers, now that had caught her eye, she had to admit.

The silence thunked into place as Owen cut the water. Marcelline’s Jell-O heart tried to stop in her chest. She folded her fist around the keys to keep them from clanging, double-checked the room for anything obviously out of place, and tiptoed out the door in Owen’s sweat-soaked socks.

Adrenaline had gotten her down the elevator and through the garage in Owen’s building, first to find the car in a frantic, swivel-headed stagger through the gloom of the concrete cavern, then driving through the exit, trembling behind the tinted glass. The gate lifted with no alarm, and she turned onto the street, gripping the steering wheel until her fingers ached.

She’d burned through the last of her energy in only a few miles. She was exhausted and anemic, sweating and gasping for air—and all of that was before she’d even gotten out of the apartment. Her once-booming heart now limped along in her chest. Her teeth chattered. The car was conspicuous, and too much of her concentration was diverted to wondering if Owen had discovered her gone yet. A few days of confinement with too much of it spent being unconscious had warped her sense of time. She hadn’t looked at a clock on the way out. He might have showered more than an hour ago, or she may only have been gone ten minutes.

She’d ground the bumper of the Mercedes over a too-high curb when she’d pulled in between a dog park and a line of shops.

In her own wallet, wherever that was, Marcelline had the same business card that she’d taken from Owen’s desk.

S.K. was Samantha. Marcelline couldn’t remember her last name, something long, lots of letters. She didn’t know what the woman’s official job title was either, but the handful of transactions that had involved Samantha had been with the shadiest characters Marcelline had ever seen in the gallery.

Whenever Samantha was part of the exchange, the layers of discretion were the answer to their own questions: Don’t ask.