By midnight, we are back in Rockton, and there’s been no sign of Petra and Colin.
“You go check Petra’s place,” Dalton says. “See if Émilie’s there. I’ll head to the hangar and check on the plane, do a little creative mechanics to make sure it’s not flying out of here tonight.”
I start to jog off, and he calls, “Take Storm. Just in case.”
I’m about to joke that I’m not exactly worried about an eighty-year-old woman. Then I remember who I’m talking about, and I gesture for Storm to follow.
* * *
Émilie is gone. I’m standing in Petra’s living room, skeleton key in hand, looking around the dark and empty apartment. There’s one bedroom, and from here I can see the bed is made. The tiny bathroom door is open, and no one is in there.
I walk into the bedroom and pause. There’s a suitcase on the floor. Émilie’s suitcase, the kind of high-end carry-on bag used by savvy and wealthy travelers who don’t want to fuss with checked luggage when they must, ugh, fly commercial.
Did she leave the bag behind? Certainly possible. With her money, it’s like me not bothering to grab my toothbrush as I flee in the night. Still …
I look around, as if it’s not past midnight, dark and silent. I heft the bag onto the bed and unzip it. Inside are more containers, packing squares and such. There’s also a leather folder tucked into a zippered pouch. I open it and find myself staring at—
Holy shit.
It’s Émilie’s passport.
I could say it’s fake, but the surname is recognizable as one of the few big-pharma family names I know.
This is Émilie’s actual passport. Alarm bells sound, the weird compulsion to warn her that she shouldn’t be leaving this around, even in a locked apartment. She needs to be much more careful hiding her real name.
Of course, it’s to my advantage that she didn’t see the need. It also tells me she hasn’t left Rockton. She’s not fleeing without her passport, especially when we’re guaranteed to find it after she leaves.
I check my watch. Where the hell would she be? The Roc and the Red Lion are closed.
Storm and I step outside. There’s no sign of Dalton … or anyone else. I’m heading to the nearest town border, intending to circle around to the hangar, when I catch a flicker of movement. My gun flies out before I realize what I’m doing. It’s not a hostile, of course. It’s a resident, sneaking to or from another resident’s bed.
I’m sliding my gun back into the holster when the moonlight illuminates just enough of the figure to tell me it’s no resident. Well, it was a resident, once, but that was a very long time ago.
It’s Émilie.
Seems there’s more than one secret agent in the family. Émilie’s spy game may not be on par with her granddaughter’s, but she’s clearly not out for an evening stroll. When I mistook her for a resident sneaking from another’s bed, that’s because she’d been outside a resident’s back door. Mathias’s door, to be exact.
I stride between buildings, and when Émilie walks past, she gives a start, seeing Storm first. Then she spots me and lets out a small laugh.
“Casey,” she says. “Petra always said your dog looked like a bear, and I didn’t see it until I came around that corner there. Nearly gave me a heart attack.”
“What are you doing out and about?” I ask.
Her silver-gray brows arch. “Is there a curfew?”
“I thought you were unwell.”
“I was tired. It passed, and now I’m most decidedly not tired. That’s the problem with napping, especially at my age.”
“Did Mathias have something to help with that?”
She frowns.
“He’s a licensed psychiatrist,” I say. “He can write prescriptions for sleeping pills. You don’t need one, though. April will supply them without a script. Around here…” I shrug. “Mathias is just the butcher.” I pause. “Well, maybe a little more, but that can’t be why you went to his house, can it?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Casey. I certainly hope you’re not implying I’m carrying on some kind of illicit liaison.” Her lips twitch. “I wouldn’t object in theory, but there’s no one here in my age bracket.”
“I saw you coming from Mathias’s house.”