Page 64 of The Sentinel

CLAIRE

The tension in the city complex lobby was suffocating, thick enough to choke on. My pulse pounded in my ears as the kid at the desk—the kid who had been at The Palmetto Rose, watching Diego—stared at the flashing name on the phone’s screen like it might detonate in his hands.

E. Hart.

Marcus stood beside me, silent, but radiating lethal energy, his body coiled tight, ready to strike. His gaze flicked from the kid to the phone, calculating, already working three steps ahead.

“Answer it,” I said, my voice steady despite the fury clawing at my throat.

The kid swallowed hard, his fingers trembling as he lifted the receiver. “M-Mayor Hart?”

Whatever she said made his shoulders snap straight. “Yes, ma’am. I understand.” He darted a wide-eyed look at me, then at Marcus, before nodding sharply into the phone. “Right away.”

He hung up too quickly. Then cleared his throat, shifting in his chair like he was about to pass out.

“The mayor will see you now.” His voice wobbled, but he gestured toward the hallway behind him, where frosted glass doors led to the offices of Charleston’s highest-ranking officials.

I didn’t wait. I stepped past the desk, through the doors, not bothering to check if Marcus was behind me.

I already knew he was.

Evelyn Hart was polished, poised, and a predator.

She stood behind an oversized desk, her office sleek and modern, filled with polished mahogany, gold accents, and a wall of windows overlooking downtown Charleston. Sunlight spilled over her shoulder, casting a halo around her blond bob, making her look every bit the picture-perfect politician.

She smiled when we entered, smooth and easy, the kind of smile made for cameras and campaign trails.

“Ms. Dixon,” she said, spreading her hands as if we were old friends. “Mr. Dane. What a surprise.”

Her voice was honeyed silk, warm and welcoming, but the steel underneath was unmistakable. A woman who had never been caught off guard a day in her life.

I didn’t play along.

“Cut the act, Mayor.” My heels clicked against the floor as I stepped forward. “You knew we were coming.”

Something flickered in her sharp blue eyes.

Her smile didn’t fade, but the warmth in it was already gone.

Marcus moved in beside me, his presence a solid wall of heat. “Let’s skip the bullshit,” he said, voice low, even. Dangerous. “We know about The Palmetto Rose. About the man watching Diego before he died. And we know you’re connected to Department 77.”

Evelyn barely blinked. If anything, her smile grew.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said smoothly, taking her seat behind the desk. She laced her fingers together, tilting her head, studying me.

Then she sighed, almost like she pitied me.

“Ms. Dixon, I understand this must be difficult for you. Losing a friend, especially so suddenly …” She made a small, sympathetic sound. “Tragic.”

I clenched my fists. “He didn’t drown.”

She arched a perfectly groomed brow. “No?”

“No,” I snapped, stepping forward. “Someone murdered him.”

Hart didn’t react. Didn’t so much as flinch.

I felt Marcus shift beside me, but I was locked on her. On the careful way she held herself, controlled, like she was waiting.

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