Page 84 of No Longer Mine

“Okay, foxy lady,” He snickered.

“Ugh, no code names.”

Dimitri flashed through my mind, and I tripped as I was leaving the safe house. There was no point in coming and going from a high-end penthouse in the middle of the Upper East Side wearing a maid’s uniform. It would only attract unwanted attention. Plus, I didn’t trust that Sinclair’s men weren’t watching my home.

Gavin never texted and never called, which was surprising but also frightening. I wondered if it meant Sinclair was going to try something. I let out a breath as I approached the Uber waiting on the corner. I couldn’t let those thoughts get into my head or else they were going to mess all of this up. I had to stay focused. I needed to get in, get out, and not raise suspicion. Sinclair was out with Gavin—per Oliver’s sleuthing on Gavin’s calendar, and Mrs. Cristof was out at dinner with Dimitri. Which was odd but also endearing.

Nope. I couldn’t go there.

Just to be safe, I had the Uber drop me off at the subway. The walk to the station was only five minutes, but I couldn’t risk it. The last thing I needed was someone noticing a housekeeper getting out of a car that was way too nice for her salary.

The wind bit at my skin as I pulled my scarf tighter, bracing myself for the long walk ahead. The wig was secure, but all it took was one stray gust or one too many adjustments for something to shift out of place. And if something was out of place, I could die. No room for error.

The subway was packed, a crush of bodies moving like a single living thing, heads down, shoulders hunched against the cold. I slipped through them, invisible in the way only a New Yorker could be. Ten minutes to the Cristof’s building.

Oliver had tracked Darla’s route for the last two weeks, making sure we had it down to an exact science. Every day, without fail, she stopped at a coffee cart before heading in.

I mirrored her routine. But this time with a scarf over my face. I let out a weak, scratchy cough as I approached the cart.

The vendor smiled. “The usual?”

I nodded and coughed again for good measure as I waved my hand around, agitated. “This weather,” I rasped.

He rolled his eyes. “It’s the worst. I’d kill for a tropical getaway.”

I handed him exact cash, took the coffee, and moved on, sticking to Darla’s pace.

Ten minutes from here.

My head started itching beneath the wig. I had no idea how Cleo wore these things so often. Then again, knowing her, she spent way more on hers than I had. That’s probably what made all the difference.

I reached the back entrance of the Cristof’s building and let out a slow breath. No one was waiting. No guards. No cameras repositioned.

“You good?” Oliver’s voice crackled in my ear, grounding me.

“Uh-huh,” I hummed.

“Everything’s clear up to the penthouse. You shouldn’t have any problems getting in.”

I swiped the keycard.

Nothing.

My stomach twisted. I tried again. Red light.

Shit. Had Darla come back? Had she changed her mind? No. She was on a flight. Oliver was watching her place through his system.

One more time. I held my breath.

Green.

Relief hit so hard I had to close my eyes for a second before yanking the door open.

Inside, the small service room was colder than the street. Two sets of elevators stood waiting. I ditched the coffee in the trash, pulled my jacket tighter, and stepped into the nearest one, pressing 24.

From here, things got tricky.

The Cristofs’ floor had an eye-scanning security system on the service entrance. No way in through the back door. But the utility closet at the end of the hall? That held my way in.

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