At the end of the walkway, I turn and give them my bestBritish royalty wave: hand vertical, wrist twisting slowly, fingers still.
Inside, the lobby is warm and softly lit. And just ahead, there’s a station where a woman is checking guests in using a tablet. “Name, please,” she asks absently, not bothering to look up when I step in front of her.
“Carol Walker,” I answer, maintaining my accent. The real Carol is from South London, after all—born and bred—even though she now lives in the States. An American accent would instantly blow my cover.
Her head snaps up, eyes widening to saucers. “Miss Walker! It’s such an honor to meet you.” She hastily transfers everything in her hands to her left, freeing her right for an eager handshake.
I accept the gesture, forcing warmth into my smile when all I want is to bypass this interaction and get on with my mission. “A fan?” Katie whispers unnecessarily.
“I really shouldn’t, but…” The woman glances around furtively before extracting a book from somewhere under her table. “Could you possibly sign this for me?”
“Of course, darling.” I take the book—an autobiography of Caroline Mary Walker.Great. She’s that kind of fan.“What’s your name?”
“Stella,” she breathes, practically crawling over the desk to watch me write:‘For the lovely Stella. Love, Carol.’Her excitement borders on concerning, and I briefly worry she might pass out.
“Thank God you actually looked Carol up,” Katie says in my ear again.
Lord give me strength.
I sign with a flourish, replicating Carol’s signature as precisely as possible, then return the book to Stella’s waiting hands.
“Thank you so much. Enjoy your evening,” she gushes, clutching the book like a holy relic.
I give her a regal nod. “Where might I find the ladies’ room?”
Stella points eagerly, and I thank her before heading towards the innocuous doorway right next to the hall entrance.
“Why the bathroom detour?” Katie asks as I open the door.
I lock it behind me and check the stalls—empty. Then I subtly glance around for surveillance. There—a tiny camera nestled in a ceiling corner.
What kind of fucking pervert puts a camera in a restroom?
I take my burner phone from my purse and raise it to my ear like I’m answering a call. “Oh my God, Katherine. You’re driving me crazy,” I growl with genuine irritation.
Katie and I don’t always get to be in the field together. Sometimes she’s the one out there while I feed her intel. Other times, like now, she’s in my ear. But she’s never been this chatty, this distracting.
“I’m so sorry! But Jack Petrov is leading the ballet score and I’m just so excited for you. I ramble when I’m excited—you know that!”
“Since when do you care enough about ballet to know who’s who?” I roll my eyes, even though she can’t see me. “I’m taking out my earpiece. I’ll contact you when I leave the building.”
“Wait, no—I’ll behave, Ipromise! Carol!!” Her protest pierces my eardrum as I discreetly turn my head away from the camera, pretending to scratch an itch while removing the device. Then I drop both phone and earpiece into my purse with a sense of relief.
There. Now I can really focus.
I fluff my wig, pull out my tube of red lipstick, and reapply it even though it’s still flawless. This isn’t just for looks. The red wax is coated with pigments from my azalea petals and is potent enough to knock a man out for several hours upon skin contact.
One kiss is all it takes.
Sliding the lethal cosmetic back into my purse, I walk out of the restroom and into the hallway, just in time to catch the tail end of the welcoming speech.
“So with that, I ask you all to proceed to the theater where the performance will start in approximately ten minutes. Thank you—and cheers!” Jason Moore announces with a charming smile, raising his wine glass.
“Cheers!” The crowd echoes his toast, sipping their drinks before streaming towards the theater.
I move in the opposite direction—towards the councilor, who’s talking to a group of men I’m guessing are his subordinates based on their stiff postures.
From my peripheral vision, I spot a suited man approaching. One of Jason’s bodyguards, no doubt. I pretend not to see him and pick up my pace.
