Valerie’s handshake was firm, businesslike. Marise liked her immediately.
“Documents first,” Valerie said, motioning to a table.
Marise dropped the leather folio onto the glass and flipped it open, laying out the paperwork one sheet at a time. An Environmental Science degree, a little worn at the edges to be plausible. Letters of recommendation from employers who didn’t exist. A résumé tailored for maximum ambiguity, polished enough to impress, vague enough to evade questions.
Valerie leafed through it without changing expression. "Good," she said, setting the papers aside.
Marise only smiled slightly to let her know she wasn’t going to fawn to get the job.
“You prefer female clients?" Valerie asked next.
"Yes." Marise said baldly. “More interesting company.”
Valerie arched one brow but nodded. "Most of our candidates won’t say it aloud. You’ll do well here."
The photo session was next, fast and efficient. The photographer snapped a series of formal shots, then a few relaxed poses. Marise knew how to angle her body, how to tilt her mouth into a smile that hinted at secrets but offered no entry. She didn’t need coaching.
She didn’t need direction.
The camera loved her.
Valerie checked the digital proofs, made a few quiet notes, then turned back. "You’re booked for an assignment tomorrow night. It’s a dinner date with a regular client. If you make a good impression, you’ll be cleared for the bigger contracts."
Marise inclined her head once in acknowledgment. No fake excitement or gratitude. They were doing business, not charity.
Valerie handed her a printed schedule. "Stay available. We’ll call if anything changes."
Without another word, Marise pocketed the papers and left. She didn’t rush back to the hotel. Instead, she walked. Manhattan swirled around her: cab horns, sirens, shouts, the stench of wet concrete and exhaust. It was alive. Breathing. Chaotic.
She threaded through it all like smoke, invisible when she wanted to be.
She passed Gramercy Park’s locked gates, detoured through the side streets where brownstones wore their ivy like old battle scars, then cut up through Madison Avenue. The the storefronts glittered with the kind of wealth that reeked of power.
Always have a cover story.
The salesgirl smiled at her. Marise smiled back. Nothing about her smile suggested how fast she could break the girl’s wrist if she needed to.
She wandered further uptown, memorizing the faces, the security cameras, the rhythm of patrol cars. Not because she was paranoid, but because it was survival.
When she finally circled back to the Alderidge, the sun was high against the buildings, throwing long jagged shadows across the sidewalks.
She rode the elevator up to the thirty-third floor, keyed into her suite, and dead-bolted the door behind her with three quick movements.
She checked the room: no disturbances or signs of entry.
She peeled off her coat, kicked off her boots, and stretched across the bed, still dressed. For a long moment, she stared up at the ceiling, letting the hum of the city fill the edges of her mind.
Soon she’d be close enough to Kathleen Knowles to read the truth in her voice, her face, her body language.
And once she had it, knew exactly what Knowles was doing, she could go back to Boston.
Wednesday night settled over Manhattan in a rush of twinkling light and sirens. Marise dressed with more care than usual, aware first impressions at the Langford mattered. Fail this, and the real prize, Kathleen Knowles, would drift out of reach.
She chose a dark teal wrap dress that clung to her curves but kept her covered where it mattered. Elegant heels, a small silver pendant at her throat. Her hair she left loose, tumbling over her shoulders in soft, controlled waves. Approachable but expensive. That was the brief.
The restaurant was tucked away off a quiet street in Midtown, behind a plain black awning and a scattering of outdoor tables lit by small flickering candles. Discretion was the currency here. No crowds, no noise, just excellent food and the kind of atmosphere that invited secrets, and where you were anonymous.
Marise arrived first. The hostess, who clearly recognized the agency's clients, ushered her to a corner table without comment. She ordered a glass of wine and settled in, watching the room with quiet detachment.
