Page 49 of Sawyer
Cam stiffens. I park beneath the porte cochère. Immediately Riggs and Andersson form a shield, Rae coordinating luggage.
Gregory strides out, relief etched deep. “Pumpkin!” He engulfs Cam before she unbuckles.
Inside the foyer, the smell of new varnish mixes with lily arrangements leftover from the gala. Gregory pulls me aside into the study lined with leather-bound volumes.
“Thank you,” he says, closing the door. “House feels like a fortress. Still, Cam mentioned you think it’s an inside leak?”
“Yes. Gala photo came from our own network. I’ll interview each contractor personally.” I slide a folder onto his desk—names, background flags. “I also urge you to suspend deliveries and limit staff rotations.”
He rubs his temples. “Our chefs quit on the spot after the bomb fiasco. Replacements start tomorrow.”
“That’s a vulnerability,” I warn. “No one new until we vet them.”
He hesitates. Investor brunch is in three days. But he nods. “Do it.”
We exit. Cam waits by the stairwell, hugging her tote of brushes like a life raft. I cross, lowering my voice. “Why don’t you finish the lake scene in your studio? I’ll sweep the east wing.”
She catches my arm. “Stay close?”
“Always.” I squeeze, then gesture Rae to shadow her upstairs.
Interviewingthe staff would normally fall to Anderssen or Rae, but I want to look each suspect in the eye.
I interrogate the Kingsley gardener (alibi: hospitalized mother), the IT subcontractor (cleared via MAC log), a new maid recommended by an agency (nervous but clean). By 18:10 Andersson reports no anomalies.
But my gut churns. Something still rots. I join Riggs in the security room—twelve monitors feed from new cameras. He rewinds gala footage again. We freeze on an image of the catering corridor camera at 22:18—just before the bomb. A figure in chef whites pushes a trash bin. The badge ID tag blurs.
I zoom. Riggs curses. “Badge is a photocopy.”
“Cross-check photo with agency files,” I bark. Andersson inputs—no match. So the bomber was inside that night disguised as waitstaff. Access given by the replaced catering team.
My phone vibrates. It's Cam.
Dinner break? I made sandwiches. Olive loaf—don’t judge. Veranda.
I smile despite the gloom and head toward the veranda.
The house is quieter. Gregory’s in his office, and the staff is minimal. Cam sets two plates on a small round table overlooking the garden. The sandwiches are crooked, mustard heavy. I bite anyway, and it tastes like normal life.
She eyes monitors visible through the archway. “Find anything?”
“Suspect used a fake badge, and borrowed a uniform.” I push lettuce aside. “We’ll track them.”
Her shoulders slump. “I’ll never feel safe again, will I?”
I lean, brushing my knuckles across her cheek. “You will. Safety isn’t the absence of threats; it’s the presence of trust. In me. In yourself.”
She blinks tears away. “I trust you. But what happens when this is over? Do you return to defusing bombs elsewhere?”
“I return to wherever you hang your canvases.” The truth clears a fog I didn’t know I still carried. “The job might end, but I’m not stepping out of your frame.”
She exhales shakily—half laugh, half sob—then kisses me, mustard and all. Heat ignites, but I keep it tempered because the hall cameras still run.
“Careful,” I murmur, pulling back. “I still have interviews.”
“Tonight?” She pouts.
“Duty, then bedtime. I promise.”
