But Kaplan?
Now that was fun.
Seeing him across the room was like standing on the edge of a chasm filled with things I’ve never felt. Electricity resonated in my chest every time I met his gaze. My core coiled and ached whenever we caught one another in a stolen glance. There was murder in Kaplan’s eyes when David touched my back where my deepest scars rest. I’m not sure why I looked at him then, or why warmth flooded my veins when he saw me flinch and his grip tightened on his glass. And then our brief encounter outside? My heart rioted behind my ribs. I warred between wanting to spill his blood or tear off his clothes and fuck him right there on the patio.
And I think he felt the same.
Maybe part of him does want me after all. I still can’t quite connect the pull I thought I felt between us at Deja Brew with the abysmal meeting a few short hours later in Kaplan’s office. I’ve replayed it so many times in perfect clarity, and yet I still can’t identify what I misunderstood. Since I revisited the first time I met Samuel, I’ve been able to reset and distance myself from obsessing about it. But last night, I’m sure I saw his darkness come to the surface, the veil between it and the real world thinning with every drink he took. That beast is hungry. Wild. Maybe even protective of what it thinks is his, though Kaplan’s rational mind keeps it pinned in a cage.
And nothing will rattle that cage more than denial and jealousy.
I smile as I replay blowing a kiss to Kaplan, savoring the aromatic steam of my espresso as I sit by the window in Grindstone. Conveniently, the coffee shop is just across the street from the upscale Mosaic Nail Salon, where Cynthia Nordstrom has an appointment in eighteen minutes. I glance at the entrance before turning my attention back to my laptop, rereading the information on her upcoming appointments. In keeping with his usual computer wizardry, Samuel has gained access to the Praetorian client calendars and retrieved Cynthia’s information. “More to come. Trying other systems. It will take time,” his message said. I’m excited to see what else he will dig up, but for now the calendar is a significant win.
So here I am, waiting in a blonde wig, drinking what I can confirm is the best espresso in town. Kaplan is right about Grindstone. How irritating. It irritates me more that my thoughts keep pulling back to him, when I should be focused on the notes I stole from his laptop the other night. There isn’t much here I didn’t already know about Caron Berger aside from a detailed list of the many criminal offenses Legio Agni is under investigation for—from counseling its members to commit crimes to tax evasion and a host of liabilities in between. Kaplan’s theories on Berger’s motivations are buried in the margins. Probable childhood trauma. Feelings of isolation. A savior complex intertwined with narcissism that’s worsened by his ability to surround himself with people he can manipulate. He’s adept at using his charisma to create a sense of community and false safety. But the information I was really hoping for isn’t here. I want to know who Caron Berger truly is—the real man, not the phantom. He stays so well-hidden only a handful of people in his innermost circle even know what he looks like.
And Cynthia Nordstrom is one of those people.
A black SUV with tinted windows rolls to a stop outside Mosaic and I text the plate number to Samuel in code, though as the passenger door opens, I already know the thread will lead back to Praetorian. I recognize the man who steps out as one of the bodyguards I saw leaving the building on Tropane. His gaze shifts around the street before he moves to the rear of the vehicle and opens the door for Cynthia. Her perfect blonde bob lifts in the breeze, a Birkin bag tucked tight against her body as she walks into the nail salon. I drain my espresso, pack my laptop, and head across the street.
I’ve taken great pains to get the right look today that will appeal to Cynthia’s discerning eye for a little lamb that would fit with Caron’s flock. I call today’s mask “Melancholy Moneyed Lamb Chop.” My makeup is light and fresh, but I keep my expression a little subdued. I’ve got a low-calorie wheatgrass smoothie in a transparent reusable cup with a silicone straw because I’m both health conscious and environmentally responsible. I’m in new activewear and my Coach bag is expensive, because this lamb chop might be lonely but at least I’ve got money. I look nonthreatening because I’m often labeled as “too thin,” which people seem to synonymize with “sad” or “weak,” when in reality that’s just what happens when you spend the first fourteen years of your life malnourished in a desert cult. And now it plays well into my long-game disguise to keep it that way. Bria Brooks? She couldn’t possibly kill a man with a single punch.
Looks are, indeed, deceiving. And hopefully my looks today will deceive Cynthia.
I pass the bodyguard who’s stationed himself outside the door and enter Mosaic, the scent of nail lacquer and acetone wafting on the steady whirl of the air filtration system. Cynthia is at the reception counter, and another woman is waiting in line between us. The space beyond them is pristine, with rose-gold accents and muted floral arrangements adorning the quartz counters of the manicure stations. Quilted white chairs line the walls, several women scattered among them receiving pedicure treatments. I resist the urge to shudder. I’m not looking forward to being touched by strangers but I’ll roll with it for a chance to get close to Cynthia.
Another receptionist joins the desk and takes the details of the next client in line as Cynthia is directed to a manicure station at one of two long, narrow tables. As I check in, I watch her look at the other women in the room. Some are here with friends; others don’t fit her target demographic of potential new recruits. I avert my gaze as her head turns in my direction.
After I’m checked in for my mani-pedi, a nail tech then leads me to the seat next to Cynthia. I set my bag down and settle in my chair before catching her eye with a polite smile. I’ve never been this close to her and my heart trills with excitement, though I keep my sweet, melancholy mask in place. Cynthia gives me a quick scan with her green eyes and grins.
“Good morning,” she says in a smooth, honeyed voice. “My name’s Cynthia. Looks like we’re going to be station buddies. What’s your name?”
“Nice to meet you,” I say. “I’m Neriah.”
“What a pretty name. I don’t think I’ve heard it before.”
I cast my eyes down with a demure smile. “Thank you. My father was an evangelical preacher. It’s one of those old-school biblical names that you don’t hear around very often.”
Cynthia’s smile grows a touch warmer. “Really? What does it mean?”
“Lamp of the Lord,” I say with a little laugh. “Maybe he forgot to change the bulb.”
Cynthia laughs in reply. “Didn’t stick with the church?”
“Not so much, no.” I mix a little sadness into my smile and turn away as our nail techs ask details about what colors and designs we’d both like. When they start working on our hands, I turn my attention back to Cynthia. “What are you going for today?”
“Kind of a seasonal, early autumn theme,” she replies, using her free hand to bring up a photo on her phone of a complex design of flowers in fall colors. “You?”
“Just short and crimson. I’d love to do something like yours but I teach yoga and I’d probably end up stabbing myself in the eye.”
A light laugh flows past Cynthia’s lips. “You teach yoga? I’ve always wanted to try it but I also don’t want to look incompetent in front of people who know what they’re doing.”
“Let me let you in on a little yogi secret. No one knows what they’re doing. Like, ever, inside or outside the studio. We’re all just faking it ‘til we make it.” I smile and give her a little shrug. “Though I don’t know about you, you look like you’ve made it.”
