Page 127 of Blind Prophet

“No, you don’t.” Perhaps I should apologize for insinuating she did. When Caroline fell for me, I was an unknown to her, and once she learned about my family, she wished I didn’t have that baggage. She’s always seen the real me. The person, not the heritage.

The GPS announces that we should take the exit in half a mile.

Once we reach the Arrow Tactical office, people will surround us. Her colleagues, bosses. People who see me as a person of interest—code for suspect.

Caroline’s attention fluctuates between her phone and the window.

“I shouldn’t have accused you of comparing me to my father,” I say, as that’s probably what she wants to hear.

Her head tilts, and she leans forward. “Is that your idea of an apology?”

That was an apology. I open my mouth to argue, but then I catch her smile and the shake of her head.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“What do I need to apologize for? You’re the one who went to my mother’s house.”

“And I might have uncovered an interesting angle.”

I flick the turn signal to exit the freeway, following the directions laid out on her phone.

“If Geoffrey’s mother is a Russian immigrant, or if there are any other ties, Nick will uncover it.”

The navigation directs us through the streets, leading us to the tourist area of Santa Barbara.

Palm trees sway against crisp, cloudless blue skies. Given what’s going on with the world, there’s a surreal quality to the setting.

Caroline directs me to underground parking, but I see an open spot on the street and nab it. I don’t live in Santa Barbara, but I’ve been here often enough, I understand the fortuity of street parking.

We exit the car in tandem and cross the street.

To one side is a brightly painted front for a shoe company. The nondescript door Caroline opens is part of a larger building that could be mistaken for the side of a parking garage. But when we enter, the small reception desk in front of a black glass wall has a different feel entirely. A black security camera hangs prominently from one corner, the placement making it clear they want everyone to be aware of the device.

A woman with black, short-cropped hair and an athletic build sits behind the desk. She clocks us both head to toe. She and Caroline exchange hellos, and the woman asks for my identification.

“Seriously?” The word comes out sharper than intended, but isn’t time of the essence?

“He’s with me,” Caroline says. “They’re expecting him upstairs.”

“I’m aware,” the woman says. “I’d still like to see your identification.”

Grudgingly, I withdraw my wallet and pass her my Colorado driver’s license.

“I’m surprised you haven’t relocated to Florida, given the absence of a state income tax,” Caroline says as the receptionist scans my license in a machine.

“Unlike some of my friends, I’m not petty enough to give a damn about taxes.” My gaze roams the walls and ceiling of the diminutive space. “And clearly, neither are you or your friends, given you’re in California.”

My quip earns a slight smile. The receptionist returns my license, and Caroline pulls on a doorknob. We enter a narrow vestibule, and she presses a button for an elevator. Two additional doors line the hall. Presumably, one of those doors goes to a stairwell.

I glance over Caroline’s shoulder and see that she’s messaged we’re here. The message is likely entirely unnecessary, given that I’m certain we were observed when we entered.

The elevator climbs one floor, and the doors open into a vast room of cubicles with offices lining the exterior. The setup is typical Silicon Valley—glass walls and open concept, though I note the military-grade security features subtly integrated throughout. Different from the quantum-encrypted fortress I maintain in Colorado, but effective in its own way.

A door on the opposite wall opens, and the woman I recognize from photographs exits.

She waves Caroline in, gesturing for her to enter the room. Unlike the other offices with clear glass, smoky glass forms the walls of this room, and as we approach, I recognize the glass as switchable glass, meaning it can become opaque with the touch of a button.

“Geoffrey Cromwell has exited the country,” Sophia says as we approach.

---