Page 21 of Shadow Secrets
Sebastian knew how to handle disgruntled principals. “CB and Mack can figure out which one.”
“No.” The word came out sharp enough to cut. “You don’t get to send strangers to rifle through my brother’s things—my things. Those are Penn’s sketchbooks. His drawings. The last pieces of his work that exist.”
“We can grab all six,” Mack said.
“I need clothes and my shampoo,” she argued. “And my art supplies.”
Sebastian kept his face neutral, even while his guts churned. “I can grab anything you want. Make a list.”
“You’re not leaving me.” Her voice punched at him. Then she dropped her eyes and her voice, which was worse. “If you’re going, I’m going.”
Sebastian turned to Garrett, looking for backup. Garrett studied Sutton for a moment, then caved. “This isn’t a prison. She’s free to go if she wants, even if it’s against our recommendation. You can take a team. Sebastian, you’re lead.”
Sebastian’s jaw tightened. He swallowed the argument he wanted to make because Garrett knew the risks—he didn’t need Sebastian repeating them.
“I’ll accompany you,” Claire said. “Consider me backup.”
Sutton stared at him with those big, brown eyes, filled with determination but also fear that he would argue again.
“Fine,” he said. “But you don’t leave my side or speak to anyone without my clearance, got it? You’re with me from the truck to the apartment and back. Non-negotiable.”
Sutton opened her mouth. Closed it. She must have seen something in his face that made her decide this particular hill wasn’t worth dying on, because she nodded once. “Non-negotiable,” she repeated dryly, like she was filing the word away for future weaponization.
CB definitely laughed that time.
They rolled out in two vehicles—Sebastian and Sutton in his truck, CB and Mack in the black Tahoe, Claire following in her federal sedan. Three vehicles on a residential block in Blackridge’s worst neighborhood would attract attention, so the plan was layered: Mack would park two blocks north and approach on foot to establish a counter-surveillance position. CB would take the alley behind the laundromat. Claire would hold at the intersection of Calder, close enough to respond but far enough away to avoid drawing eyes. Sebastian would take Sutton in through the front, once he was sure the apartment was clear.
The drive was quiet. Sutton sat in the passenger seat, thumbs tapping against each other in a rhythm that looked involuntary. She was wearing his shirt and jacket.
Sebastian parked a half block from the laundromat, killed the engine, and scanned the street. Mid-morning in the industrial district appeared normal. The pawn shop was open, its window display unchanged from yesterday. The check-cashing place had a customer inside. A delivery truck idled outside the auto body shop three doors down. The laundromat’s front window showed two women folding clothes. Normal rhythms. Normal noise. But normal was just the surface, the part you could see. The part you couldn’t see was what killed you.
His ear comm clicked, and Mack’s voice said, “North position set. No hostile surveillance. Two pedestrians, both appear local, neither interested.”
CB reported in next. “Alley’s clear. Back entrance to the laundromat is unlocked. I’ve got eyes on the stairwell to the second floor.”
Claire followed up. “Holding at Calder. You’re clear to approach.”
Sebastian turned to Sutton. “Stay behind me going in. Don’t stop moving until we’re inside with the door locked. If I say down, you get down. If I say run, you run to the truck.”
She held his gaze for a beat. He watched the reality of the situation settle over her—the earpieces, the coordinated positions, his orders rubbing against her independence. This wasn’t a ride home from the compound. This was an operation.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Yes.” She unbuckled her seatbelt. “Let’s go.”
Sebastian led, his hand resting on the sidearm beneath his jacket. He told Sutton to place a hand on his back and keep it there. She didn’t argue for once, her hand resting just above his belt. Trust, even reluctant trust, was necessary. She was inside his radius now. Anyone who wanted her would have to come through him first.
The entrance to the apartment was a narrow door beside the laundromat’s rear exit, opening onto a steep staircase with institutional carpet worn thin in the center. The hallway at the top was dim—one fluorescent tube, the other dead. Two doors. Sutton’s was on the left, marked with a brass number that had tarnished to brown.
“Key?” he asked.
She pulled it from her pocket—she’d had her keys on her the night of the murder, not her phone. Small mercy. She held it out. He took it, positioned her behind him against the hallway wall, and unlocked the door.
The apartment was dark. He went in first, sidearm drawn, clearing the space in the systematic sweep he could do in his sleep. It was a studio layout, one room serving as bedroom, living area, and kitchen. There was a bathroom the size of a closet. A window facing the street, another facing the alley. No one inside. No signs of forced entry.
But the place was a mess.
Clothes were draped over the back of a chair. Sketchbooks were stacked on the counter beside a cold coffee mug. A thrift-store quilt bunched at the foot of an unmade bed. Dishes sat unwashed in the sink. Three succulents decorated the windowsill, two of them surrendering to entropy.
