Total pages in book: 173
Estimated words: 169266 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 846(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 169266 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 846(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
“How much younger was Emma?”
“Three years.” My voice catches. I clear my throat. “She was the good one. Sweet, hopeful. Even when things were bad at home, she never lost that light. She always believed our mama loved us, always believed she’d get better. That we’d get better, as a family.”
“You protected her,” she observes.
“I tried. Not long enough. After a while, I couldn’t always be there.”
The admission hangs between us, more honest than anything I’ve said in years. I don’t know why I’m telling her this, don’t know why her small nod of understanding makes me feel like unraveling the rest.
“Some of that should be off the record too,” Mia says quietly. “Your mother. I won’t use it unless you want me to.”
“Why?”
“Because some things aren’t for public consumption.” She holds my gaze. “Because you trusted me with it, and it feels like I should protect it, like you protected your sister.”
I break eye contact, feeling too much at once, and glance at the windows. The crowd has grown, phones everywhere, faces pressed to glass. Tomorrow, there will be headlines, speculation about Mia, is she really a journalist or is it a cover for a girl I’m dating, etc.
“We should probably wrap up,” Mia says, glancing at the window. “Your PR team is going to have a lot of work to sift through.”
I lean back in the booth, watching her gather her things. “This was…nice. Better than nice. Even though it got pretty personal, I haven’t had a real conversation in longer than I can remember. And definitely not with a civilian.”
“Is that what this was?”
“Wasn’t it?” Cause in the end, it sure as hell didn’t feel like an interview.
It felt like a shared confession.
She pauses, recorder in hand. “Yeah,” she says finally. “I think maybe it was.”
I want to ask her to stay, want to stretch this moment out, keep her here in this sticky-floored diner with the crowd pressing against the windows and Danny pretending not to watch from his post by the door. I want things I have no business wanting.
And I’m afraid. Afraid I can’t say no to myself.
Dangerous. This is dangerous. You know how you can get.
I stand abruptly, paying for the drinks with a few clicks of my watch. “I’ll have Danny take you back to your hotel.”
She looks up at me, disappointment crossing her features before she smooths it away. “No flying car tour of the city?”
“Let’s make it a rain check.”
I offer my hand to help her up, and when she takes it, I’m careful to let go at the appropriate moment. Careful not to hold on. Careful not to think about how small her hand feels in mine, how warm and soft her skin is, how warm and soft her skin might be elsewhere, how easy it would be to pull her closer.
Pull her down.
Hold her down.
Stop it.
“Until next time, Mia.”
“Sure. Until next time.” She doesn’t move toward the door. “You know, you’re not what I expected either.”
“What did you expect?”
“I’m not sure yet. When I figure it out, I’ll be sure to let you know.”
Danny clears his throat from the doorway. “Cameras are getting restless, boss.”
The moment breaks. Mia steps back, her face neutral again, and I watch her walk toward the door with my hands shoved in my pockets so I don’t do something stupid, like reach for her.
Outside, the crowd surges forward, phones flashing. I can already see the headlines forming: Vanguard’s Mystery Woman. Who Is She? By tomorrow, everyone will have an opinion.
I watch the Meridian lift off with her inside, and I stand on the sidewalk in Carroll Gardens, the October wind cutting through my shirt while strangers film me from across the street, waiting for me to fly off on my own.
Just an interview, I remind myself.
But I’m already counting the hours until I see her again.
CHAPTER 9
MIA
There’s something almost meditative about breaking into a building you’re not supposed to be in. It’s like yoga…for people who are sick in the head.
The adrenaline sharpens everything—the distant hum of traffic on the BQE, the smell of rust and rain-damp concrete, the way my breath fogs in the autumn air. My body knows what to do. Muscle memory takes over, and for a few blissful hours, I don’t have to think about milkshakes or hover cars or the way Vanguard’s eyes darkened when he watched me drink through that straw.
Focus, Mia. You’re on the clock.
The Global Dynamix auxiliary facility in Queens isn’t much to look at from the outside—a squat box of grey concrete tucked between a self-storage warehouse and an abandoned meatpacking plant. No signage. No logo. Just a building that wants very badly to be forgotten.
Which is exactly why SOE flagged it. And since part of my mission is to get as much intel on what Global is doing as possible, in addition to what happened to Kapoor, I don’t get to spend my night alone in my hotel room, eating room service and watching bad reality TV.