Total pages in book: 49
Estimated words: 46223 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 231(@200wpm)___ 185(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46223 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 231(@200wpm)___ 185(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
Rae purrs. That’s our ghost. Don’t smash. I want it to sing.
Brice appears like smoke, already sweating. “Is there a problem?”
“He’s fired,” I say. “And so is the vendor that sent him. From now on, my eyes.”
We hand Jared to the venue manager, who loves firing someone before lunch. Tablet goes in a Faraday pouch. Back on set, Vanessa keeps talking into a cup but her eyes find me in the reflection of a fake window. I give her a small nod. Leak handled—for now.
Between setups, we huddle with Brice over the tour grid. “We’re wheels-up at six a.m.,” I tell them. “Two vehicles per city. Drivers vetted. Rooms booked under burn names, floors staggered. Rae and Jaxson will pre-sweep each venue’s network. We’ll run decoy posts from a safe location to flood the feed with noise. If you insist on fan ‘surprise meetups’—” I look at Brice until he stops pretending innocence— “they happen only after we’ve left and only when we control the space.”
Vanessa leans on the counter, arms folded, listening hard. “What do you need me to tell my audience?”
“That you value them enough to survive,” I say. “Tell them content will be delayed. Tell them you’ll share more when it’s safe.”
She taps her nail against the mug, thinking. “They’ll freak.”
“They’ll adapt,” I say. “Or they can watch old clips.”
Brice exhales like I canceled Christmas. “What about deliverables—”
“We’ll hit your deliverables,” I say. “We’re just moving the time stamps.”
Rae whispers in my ear: Punched the tablet. Our boy Jared is in three shared Slack channels with a sponsor rep who DMs like a stalker and a venue coordinator who forwards floor plans to a personal Gmail. I’m freezing Jared out of anything that smells like security. Watch your corners.
“Copy.” I tuck Vanessa’s secure phone deeper into her back pocket like muscle memory. “We’ll shake the tree in Seattle.”
“Seattle’s three coffees and a raincoat,” she says, lifting her chin. “I can do rain.”
“Good.” I check my watch. “Back-of-house exit in five. Rae’s spoofing a lobby decoy.”
“Love a fake-out,” she says, energy sparking. Then, softer, to me: “We’re good?”
“We’re good,” I say. I mean: I see the tells under the glitter. I won’t let anyone write you into their story.
We move. Service hall, garage, a clean merge into traffic. The white van follows a block, turns off. Temp plate logs have a rhythm. Rae hums. Jaxson texts a string of Wi-Fi MACs like sheet music only he understands. Hayes sends me a reminder photo of a flash-bang casing, and:
If you see cousins, call me.
In the SUV, Vanessa angles toward me, knee brushing my cargo pocket. “Be honest,” she says. “Do I make this harder?”
“You make it different,” I say. “Cameras attract wolves. We keep the wolves at the fence.”
She watches me watch the mirrors. “Dean said you don’t rattle.”
“I don’t.”
“Want me to try?”
“No.”
She laughs, bright and quick. “Fair.”
The driver calls back: “Front entrance is hot with paparazzi.”
“Side door,” I say. “Keypad code incoming.” Rae drops it on my screen before I finish asking. We snake around to a painted door with chipped trim. The lock buzzes. We’re in.
By the time we finish the day, we’ve got three suspects, a ghost tablet that now belongs to us, and a pattern: pings before we arrive, tiny angle shifts, a van that likes our routes. Enough threads to start a net.
Back at the hotel, I sweep the suite one more time. Wedge still in the slider. Curtains drawn. Brice has finally stopped saying “deliverables” like a prayer. The PA is breathing without counting. Vanessa stands at the neutral wall, looking at the queued posts, then at me.
“You passed the glitter test,” she says.
“I didn’t know there was one.”
“There always is.” She steps closer, drops her voice. “Next lesson: how to pose without looking like a hostage.”
“I’ll bring a helmet,” I deadpan.
She laughs—a real one—and it lands better than any flash-bang. “Morning wheels-up?”
“Zero six. Shoes on by five forty-five.” I hand her a small Faraday pouch. “Phone sleeps in this.”
She tucks it away, nods once like we just shook hands on a contract. “Goodnight, Riggs.”
“Goodnight,” I say, and take the service elevator down, counting exits because it’s how I breathe.
Professional. Always. Chemistry can wait its turn. The hunt can’t. Seattle’s rain will scrub the glitter. The threats won’t care either way.
I care.
2
Vanessa
My alarm buzzes at four-thirty, and I roll out of bed like I’m escaping a trap. The suite’s quiet, dark, and disorienting; the sun hasn’t even bothered to wake up yet. My eyes sting from three hours of restless sleep, and my heart kicks into gear the second my feet touch the cold hotel floor. Anxiety is nothing new—I’ve built an entire brand out of managing it—but these recent threats are unraveling the carefully woven threads of my confidence.
This morning, though, nerves have nothing on the awareness buzzing under my skin. Awareness named Riggs.