Page 63 of The Sentinel

She hit the lobby hard and zeroed in on the guy at the front desk—a kid, maybe early-twenties, all nervous energy and cheap polyester tie. He looked up as she loomed over him, her hands slamming down on the counter, her voice sharp enough to cut glass.

“I need to see Evelyn Hart,” she said, leaning in, her tone leaving no room for bullshit. “Now.”

The kid blinked, fumbling for words. “Uh, ma’am, the mayor’s schedule—do you have an appointment?”

Claire’s laugh was cold, biting. “Do I look like I need an appointment? Tell her Claire Dixon’s here. She knows who I am.”

He stammered, reaching for the phone, and my own buzzed again in my pocket. I pulled it out, keeping Claire in my peripheral as I opened Ryker’s next message.

ID confirmed. Official pic attached. Check it.

I tapped the file, and a photo loaded—young guy, clean-cut, suit crisp, hair neat. My eyes flicked up to tell Claire, to pull her back for a second so we could regroup—and then I froze.

The kid at the desk was scrambling, the phone slipping from his sweaty hands as Claire glowered over him, her voice rising. “Tell her it’s about Diego Gil. Tell her I know what happened at The Palmetto Rose.”

He ducked his head, grabbing the receiver again, and the light caught his face just right—sharp jaw, nervous twitch in his cheek, the same damn profile staring back at me from my phone.

Holy shit.

It was him. The guy from the footage. The one who’d followed Diego to the elevator, watched him like prey before he disappeared. The last person to see him alive.

My pulse slammed into overdrive, adrenaline flooding hot and fast. I stepped forward, keeping myvoice low, controlled, as I murmured to Claire, “That’s him.”

She didn’t turn, didn’t flinch, but I saw her shoulders stiffen, her hands pressing harder against the counter. “What?”

“The kid you’re tearing into,” I said, nodding toward him. “He’s the one from the hotel. Ryker just sent me his picture.”

Her head snapped to me then, gray eyes blazing, and for a split second, I saw it—the raw, unfiltered fury she’d been holding back since Diego’s death hit her. Then she turned to the kid, slow, deliberate, like a predator locking onto a target.

He was still fumbling with the phone, oblivious, muttering into it—“Uh, yeah, Ms. Hart, there’s a Claire Dixon here, says it’s urgent?—”

Claire didn’t wait. She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a lethal whisper. “You were there, weren’t you? At the hotel. Last night.”

The kid’s eyes widened, the phone slipping again, clattering onto the desk. “W-what? I don’t?—”

“Don’t lie to me,” she snapped, cutting him off. “I’ve got you on camera. Following Diego Gil. Right before he ended up dead in that pool.”

His face drained of color, sweat beading on his forehead, and he stammered, hands shaking. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about?—”

“Bullshit,” she spat, slamming her palm down again, the sound echoing in the lobby. “You were there. I saw you.”

I stayed back, watching. This was her play, her interrogation, and she was damn good at it. But my gut was screaming now, every instinct on edge. This kid wasn’t justsome lackey caught off guard—he was scared, cornered, and that made him dangerous. I scanned the room, clocking the exits, the handful of staffers pretending not to stare. If he bolted, I’d have him. If he tried anything else, I’d end it.

“Claire,” I said, low, warning, but she didn’t hear me—or didn’t care. She was too deep, too focused, her anger a blade she was wielding with precision.

“Tell me what you did,” she said, her voice steady now, cold as ice. “Tell me why Diego’s dead, or I swear to God, I’ll make sure everyone in this city knows your face by tomorrow.”

The kid swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and I saw it—the crack. He was breaking, fast, and whatever came out of his mouth next was going to change everything.

“I—I didn’t—” he started, voice shaking, but then the phone on the desk buzzed, cutting through the tension like a gunshot. He flinched, staring at it, and I caught the name flashing on the caller ID:E. Hart.

Claire saw it, too. Her lips curled into a grim, feral smile. “Answer it,” she said, stepping back just enough to give him room, her eyes never leaving his face. “Let’s see what your boss has to say.”

He hesitated, hands trembling, then reached for the phone like it was a live grenade. I shifted closer, my shadow falling over him, and he froze again, caught between us.

This was it. The thread we’d been chasing, unraveling right here. Diego’s killer—or at least the bastard who’d watched him die—was in our hands, and Evelyn Hart was about to step into the crosshairs. I didn’t know what Claire would do next, but I knew one thing for damn sure: I wasn’t letting her face it alone.

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