Chapter 5
At five sharp. I watched Claire Morrison exit Pierce Tower’s executive garage. Something felt off seeing such a petite woman climb into a fully loaded Jeep Grand Cherokee L Summit Reserve.
I kept my Porsche Cayenne GTS at a discreet distance, trailing her fifteen minutes north to The Estates at Greenwich Cove – one of those ultra–private communities where homes start at eight figures. Not exactly the neighborhood you’d expect for someone in Operations.
The guard at the limestone gatehouse barely glanced at my Cayenne’s diplomatic plates before waving me through. I fed him some line about visiting a friend from the country club.
I parked a few houses down from where her Jeep sat in a lusated circular driveway. The whole time, I kept asking myself what the hell I was doing. This wasn’t me following people, playing amateur detective.
–
Maybe it was those telltale marks on her neck. Maybe it was that smudged MAC Russian Red.
Either way, my anxiety was in the driver’s seat now.
Just as I was about to put this ridiculous stalking expedition behind me, another car glided into view.
car I’d recognize anywhere.
Nathan’s Rolls–Royce Cullinan Black Badge.
My blood froze, My Cartier watch ticked off the seconds as I sat there, paralyzed.
The Rolls idled silently in front of Claire’s designer farmhouse.
No movement
With trembling fingers, I pulled up Nathan’s contact.
He answered instantly, his voice warm through my AirPods.
“Hey beautiful, everything okay?”
Fighting to keep my voice steady: “Still at the office? You weren’t feeling great earlier maybe come home?”
A soft chuckle. “Just left actually. Last–minute thing with Senator Mitchell about that Hudson Yards project. Needed someone from Operations for the details.”
“Who’d you bring?” My voice sounded distant to my own ears
“Claire Morrison. She knows the numbers inside out.”
Through my windshield, I watched Claire hurry out clutching a Smythson portfolio, sliding into Nathan’s Rolls.
Nathan was still talking: “Don’t worry about earlier – just conference call fatigue. Claire just got in, we’ll wrap with
Mitchell by seven. I’ll pick up dinner from Jean–Georges on my way home.”
After hanging up, I forced myself to breathe.
His tone was completely transparent. Nothing hidden.
Pure coincidence.
A senator’s impromptu request. Claire being the numbers person. My ridiculous paranoid episode….
I watched the Rolls glide past the Newport style fountain toward the main gates.
Starting my Cayenne, something made me pause.
When the Rolls exited….
The gates opened automatically. No pause for clearance.
Slowly. I turned back to Claire’s house.
It was one of those modern farmhouse meets Hamptons designs that had taken over Greenwich – all clean lines and massive windows. The second–floor Restoration Hardware lanterns cast a soft glow through custom Fortuny drapes. The wraparound veranda showcased perfectly manicured toplaries from Winston Flowers.
I sat frozen behind my steering wheel.
Ten minutes later, I found myself at her front door.
A sleek Nest x Yale lock gleamed in the fading light.
Like someone else was controlling my fingers, I punched in a number.
960703 – my birthday.
Click.
The door unlocked.
