Page 3 of Sawyer
“Canvases can be repainted. People can’t.”
She chews her lip—a soft, plush movement that stirs heat in my chest—and closes the tablet. “All right, Soldier Boy. You’re in charge. Where do we start?”
“Full audit of the estate. Then we examine your daily routines?—”
“Let me stop you there.” She uncrosses her legs, leans forward, elbows on knees. “Tomorrow I’m hosting an art workshop for underfunded schoolteachers. Then, the next day with twenty kids. We’re painting a mural downtown.”
“I’ll scout the site tonight.”
“And I’m attending the Kingsley Foundation gala Saturday. Approximately six hundred of my father’s closest rich friends.”
“I’ll coordinate with venue security. You’ll have discreet coverage.”
“Discreet coverage,” she echoes, rolling the phrase across her tongue like salted caramel. “You really think you can fade into the background?”
“I’m stealthier than you think.”
She sweeps her gaze from my broad shoulders to my combat boots. “We’ll see.”
The air tightens, a taut wire between us. Camille’s eyes soften, curiosity blooming. “You always this wound-tight, Sawyer?”
“Occupational hazard.”
“Maybe we should loosen you up.” She pushes to her feet, toes flexing against Persian weave, and steps into my space—close enough that her lemon-and-turpentine scent tangles with my cedar soap. I tower over her, but she doesn’t retreat. Instead, she slides her dry paint-smeared hand around the neckline of my shirt, thumb brushing the hidden mic clipped to the collar.
“Fancy,” she murmurs. “Do you record everything your clients say?”
“No mic,” I lie, because now I’m conscious of her pulse fluttering beneath turquoise smudges. “Just a button.”
“Shame.” She flicks the ‘button’ and steps back, grin turning sly. “Would’ve made a great art piece:Surveillance Heartbeat.”
“And what would mine look like?”
“Fast.” Her voice drops. “Very fast.”
She’s not wrong. My heartbeat is hammering like a jackhammer in a quiet chapel. Professionalism fists my collar, drags me upright. “Edgar mentioned lemonade?”
“Kitchen’s this way.” She twirls, braid swinging, and heads down a corridor lined with abstract seascapes. I follow, chastising my adrenal glands. She’s the client. Hands off. Eyes forward. Brain in charge.
Halfway down the hall, a small envelope lies on the floor—plain cream cardstock, addressed in block letters: CAMILLE.
She bends to pick it up, but I’m faster. “Allow me.” I slip on nitrile gloves from my back pocket before handling the envelope. No postmark, no return address, but the hairs on my neck salute. “Where’d this come from?”
Cam’s playful expression melts. “It wasn’t here earlier. I swear.”
“We’ll let forensics decide.” I bag the envelope, already dialing Dean. It bothers me that somebody left this right here in her house. Security’s shit. I open the envelope, reading the message inside, ‘Die, bitch.’
I don’t let her see the message, but my radar kicks to high alert. “Nobody saw anything? Edgar? Anyone?”
“Nobody ever does.”
This pisses me off, and I square my shoulders, looking her straight in the eyes. “You don’t go anywhere alone.”
Her shoulders square, chin lifts. She’s about to protest, I can see it, but she swallows the retort. “Okay, Sawyer. I’ll listen.”
My surprise must show because she laughs softly. “Don’t look so shocked. I may be stubborn, but I’m not stupid.”
“Smart’s good,” I say, holstering my phone. “Smart keeps you breathing.”
