Syd told herself she wasn’t breaking the rules—and if she was, well, she wasn’t the only one.

She dropped the card on the floor, and tugged the window shut behind her.

VII

THE LAST MORNING

VIII

DOWNTOWN MERIT

VICTOR stood on the street, the stolen paperback open in his hand.

He’d lingered in the bar until just after midnight before checking into a nearby motel, the kind that clearly wasn’t eager to draw police attention. After a few restless hours on creaking springs, he’d gotten up again, and walked the thirty-four blocks through the waking heart of Merit to the address June had scribbled inside the battered front cover.

119 Alexander Place. 12 p.m.

It was, of all things, an art gallery. Large glass windows looked out onto the curb, revealing glimpses of the paintings inside. It was almost noon, and Victor hadn’t decided yet if he was going in.

He weighed the options in his mind, along with June’s words.

It could simply be another kind of trap. Or it could be an opportunity. But in the end, it was sheer curiosity that propelled him forward. For the EO who had managed to evade EON’s net. For the woman who had held her ground instead of running.

Victor crossed the street, climbed the three short steps, and stepped into the White Hall Gallery.

It was larger than it looked from the street—a series of broad, blank rooms, linked together by archways. Abstract paintings dotted the walls, blotches of color against the white. In his black attire, Victor felt like an ink spill. Ideal for slipping through crowds on the street, but far more conspicuous in such a stark environment. So he didn’t bother trying to blend in, didn’t pretend to admire the art, simply set off to find Marcella.

A handful of men and women stood scattered through the rooms, but none of them were real patrons. Victor glimpsed holsters beneath fitted suits, fingers resting on the open mouths of handbags. Hired guns, he thought, wondering if June was hidden among them. He didn’t spot anyone with her tells.

But he did find Marcella.

She was in the largest gallery, facing away from him, her black hair pulled up, a silk blouse dipping low between her shoulder blades. Still, he knew it was her. Not because he’d seen a photograph, but because of the way she stood, with all the casual grace of a predator. Victor was used to being the strongest person in the room, and it was both familiar and unsettling to see that confidence on someone else.

They weren’t alone in the room.

A thin man in a black suit leaned against the wall between two paintings. His dark hair was slicked back, his eyes hidden behind a pair of sunglasses. The white walls made the gallery unnaturally bright, but not bright enough to merit shades—meaning they served an alternate purpose.