Vincent's expression says he doesn't believe me, but he knows better than to push.
He's been with me since my father's days, the only one who survived the transition when I took over.
He knows when I'm hunting.
And I am hunting.
I just haven't decided what I'll do when I catch her.
The reports come in twice daily, encrypted messages that paint a picture of a woman unraveling.
Or perhaps, finally revealing herself.
Monday:
Peter reports she called in sick to work, spent the day in bed staring at nothing.
The boyfriend came by. She didn't answer the door.
Tuesday:
She went to therapy, stayed twelve minutes and then left, slamming the door.
Paul followed her to a liquor store, where she bought vodka she didn't drink, just held the bottle like she was considering something.
Wednesday:
She fought with the boyfriend.
Peter had the adjacent apartment bugged months ago—standard procedure for anyone connected to my past.
I listen to the recording of her voice, cold and final: "I'm done pretending to be someone I'm not."
Thursday:
She went shopping. Not to her usual conservative boutiques, but to the kind of place where women buy dresses as weapons.
She paid cash—interesting, since she usually uses cards.
She's hiding something. Planning something.
Friday afternoon:
She was seen at her boyfriend’s. They fought. She ended things.
Paul calls me directly. "Boss, she's getting ready for something. Her friend left, and she's already out the door. That dress she bought? She's wearing it."
"Where's she going?"
"No idea, but she looks like sin incarnate."
Sin incarnate. The judge's daughter.
I pour myself a drink and consider what I know.
She's been asking about Purgatory.
She's shed her safe life like a snake shedding skin.
