Page 7 of Sawyer
“Sawyer here,” I mutter, turning away. “Talk.”
“Got the first pass on that envelope from the detective,” Riggs says. “No prints, but the paper stock is specialty—Arcana Ivory, sold to exactly eleven boutiques in the Saint Pierce area. I’m sending the list.”
“Run surveillance pulls near all eleven in the last month. Flag anyone following Cam or Kingsley family staff.”
“On it.”
I hang up, catch Cam’s curious look over her shoulder.
“Work?” she asks.
“Clues.”
She bites her lip, studying me, then goes back to the canvas. Ten minutes later she steps away, satisfied. The horizon glows like molten honey. The room smells of pine solvent and electric tension.
“Moment of truth,” she says, turning. “Verdict?”
“It looks like the sunset over a war zone,” I answer honestly. “Devastating and hopeful at the same time.”
Her cheeks flush. “Not everyone sees both.”
“I’ve seen worse skies.” My voice dips, remembering sandstorms smeared with tracer fire. “Yours ends with light.”
She opens her mouth, maybe to thank me, maybe to flirt, when Edgar interrupts with the dinner gong—yes, a literal bronzegong. Money, apparently, buys medieval theatrics. Cam rolls her eyes. “If I don’t show, Edgar will organize a search party. You coming?”
“I’ll roam the perimeter first,” I answer. “Meet you there.”
She nods as she slips from the studio. I wait until her footsteps fade, then swipe a quick UV scan wand along the doorframe—no residue, no hidden microdots. Still, my gut says the breach was inside, not out. Trust but verify. Mostly verify.
Dinner happens in a dining hall big enough to host NATO talks. It’s just Cam, me, Edgar, and two silent maids who materialize courses like stagehands. Cam sits at the head. I sit on her right. She attempts small talk—art, weather, an upcoming charity gala—but every clink of silver jolts my hypervigilance.
After dessert—an obscenely decadent lavender crème brûlée—Cam pushes back her chair. “Come on, Maddox. Time to pick your sleeping quarters.”
Edgar bristles. “I would be happy to?—”
“I’ve got it,” she insists, and I follow her up the sweeping staircase.
She stops at a mahogany door halfway down the east wing. “You’ll stay here.” She opens to reveal a suite that could house a minor royal. It’s got a king bed, marble bathroom, and a balcony facing the ocean.
“Appreciated,” I say, scanning angles. Closets deep enough to hide a linebacker. Windows double-latched, but the balcony rail is only seven feet from a drainpipe—note to self: install motion sensors.
“My room’s two doors down,” she offers, voice husky with something unnamed. “In case you need me.”
“I’ll manage.” My tone comes out rougher than intended.
Her smile is Cheshire-cat slow. “Sleep well, Sawyer.” She pivots, her braid sliding across her spine, and she disappears into the dim hall.
I do not sleep well.
2300 hours: I lie flat on five-hundred-thread-count sheets staring at the ornate ceiling medallion. The house groans like an old ship. Every pop of timber sounds like a footstep. I replay the timeline: envelope found at sixteen-twelve. Staff accounted for. Windows locked. Front gate monitored. So how did the perp get in? Drone drop? Unlikely—no open skylights. Insider? More likely. Could be a disgruntled employee, a contractor with a grudge, a social engineer who sweet-talked delivery access.
2330: I give up, grab my phone, dial Dean.
“Status?” he answers, with no preamble whatsoever.
“Something’s off,” I say, keeping my voice low. “Perp left an envelope inside a secure perimeter. No breach signs. Paper stock exclusive.”
“Inside job,” Dean concludes. “Want me to run backgrounds on staff?”
