She skipped past maintenance—none of them had the clearance, and this wasn’t someone randomly clicking around on a stolen laptop. They had to know exactly what to copy and where to look.
It must be someone at the Institute.
She searched the names of the people who worked in or near her wing, then filtered further: those who had independent access, and technical fluency to navigate her files.
She circled the four names starting with W in the building:Edith Williams;Molly Woods (Admin);George WainrightandTed Winters.
She tapped her pen beside Edith Williams, then crossed her off the list.
She looked at Molly, thinking it was very unlikely she was the culprit. Molly was a young, vivacious typist with no expertise in the scientific world.
She hovered over George Wainright, ready to cross him off, but then she paused. His wife was Eve. Her pulse ticked faster. E. W. Eve Wainright.
She hadn’t considered Eve. She wasn’t officially attached to the Institute, but George had master key access. If Eve wanted to walk in, no one would stop her. She was also a trained scientist and her credentials were impressive.
Kathleen stared at the name. Though she didn’t want to believe it, she had to consider it.
She drew a small star beside Eve Wainright, circled it once, then underlined it twice.
After six, Kathleen shut down her computer, with the notes folded in her bag. She left the lab without speaking toanyone and drove home. By the time she reached her building, the sun was setting, casting long blue shadows across the street. She let herself into the apartment, placed her shoes neatly against the wall, and put her bag on the divider. She grimaced. Home used to feel like a haven but now it felt like a box.
She padded into the kitchen, opened the fridge, stared at the contents for a moment, then shut it again. Nothing appealed. Not food, not television, not even music.
She put on the kettle and leaned against the counter.
Her phone buzzed on the table. She checked the ID: her mother. Imagining the questions she’d have to endure, she let it go to voice mail.
A few seconds later, a notification blinked:One new voicemail.She didn’t listen.
Kathleen made a coffee and settled into a lounge chair. Tomorrow, she would act, tonight, she wanted peace and quiet.
An hour later, she was watching a movie on Netflix when the doorbell rang.
She swore. Only one person would show up unannounced—her mother. She wouldn’t put it past her to drive across town because her call had gone unanswered. Her mother hated silence.
Resigned, she padded to the door and when she pulled it open, her heart skipped a beat. Veronica stood in the hallway, hair loose around her shoulders, her coat unbuttoned, and her expression strained. She looked tired, with dark circles beneath her eyes, and a tightness around her mouth.
“I won’t stay,” she said quietly. “I need to give you something.”
Kathleen said nothing. Without a word, she stepped aside to let her enter.
Veronica stepped into the apartment, but didn’t remove her coat. “I know I’m the last person you want to see,” she said, “but I recorded my conversation with Darlene.”
Kathleen crossed her arms, waiting for her to continue.
Veronica pulled a small device from her pocket. “She told me when and where the auction will be held. I’ve written it down.” She handed over a folded sheet of paper. “Give it to the FBI.”
Kathleen took the page and stepped back. For a moment they stood there, caught in the awkwardness of two people who’d once been too close and now didn’t know where they stood.
Kathleen glanced at her, searching Veronica’s face. There was no smugness there, no clever comeback, something like sincerity.
She was torn between anger and longing, mistrust and memory. Veronica had followed through on the plan. Although she’d done exactly what they’d agreed to, it didn’t exonerate her for the deception.
“You should sit,” she said finally.
Veronica didn’t move. “I’ll go if you want me to.”
Kathleen sighed. “I actually don’t know what I want. I should hate you for what you did. I haven’t a clue who you really are, who employed you to spy on me and why I’m even entertaining you in my home. Though mostly, why I still care about you. You’re a Glass Spinner, Veronica. You wove the perfect delicate snare—I didn’t see the threads until I was caught.”
