PART 12:

And they’d eaten cereal for dinner because he hadn’t managed to cook anything, and she’d declared cereal a completely acceptable dinner choice. A position he’d agreed with mostly because he was tired, and partly because she was right. He’d called the number Janet Reyes had given him and confirmed Thursday at 11:00 at an address in the financial district that turned out to be the main offices of Blackwell Capital.

He took the subway. He did not wear his work uniform. Okay. Blackwell Capital occupied the top four floors of a building that had been designed to make a statement about permanence. The lobby was the kind of space where the ceiling height was calculated to make you feel the appropriate scale of things. Ethan checked in at the security desk, the irony of which he noted without comment, and was met by Janet Reyes, who was perhaps 35, efficient in a way that was organized rather than cold, and had the slightly compressed expression of

someone managing a calendar that had been significantly disrupted by recent events. “Mr. Cross, thank you for coming.” She walked him toward the elevators. “Ms. Blackwell is expecting you. She has about 90 minutes before her next commitment. She wanted me to be transparent about that. Appreciate it. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Water? Water’s fine.

The elevator opened directly into a reception area on the 40th floor, which was the kind of design decision that communicated something specific about how Blackwell Capital felt about its position relative to the rest of the world. Not ostentatious, exactly. More like assured. The difference between showing off and simply not being apologetic about what you’d built.

Sophia Blackwell was standing at the window when he walked in. Not in a staged way. She was looking at her phone, and she turned when she heard him. And there was a brief moment of adjustment in her expression that he read as someone recalibrating the version of this meeting they’d been preparing for in their head against the actual person who had just walked in.

He understood that. He was doing the same thing. She was dressed differently than she’d been at the hotel. Less structured. Something that still read as professional, but had more room in it. Like a person who was in their own space and could afford to occupy it differently. Her hair was down. She looked younger, and also somehow more formidable, which was a combination he hadn’t been expecting.

Mr. Cross. She extended her hand. He shook it. Ms. Blackwell. Sophia, please. She gestured toward a seating area arranged near the window. A couch and two chairs around a low table. The kind of setup that was designed for conversation rather than presentation. Sit wherever you want. He chose one of the chairs. She sat on the couch across from him.

Water appeared, delivered by someone he didn’t quite see. And then they were alone. She looked at him for a moment in the considering way he was beginning to recognize as characteristic. Not uncomfortable. Not aggressive. Just the look of someone gathering information before speaking. Which was, he thought, probably a useful trait in someone who managed several billion dollars of other people’s money.

“I had you looked into,” she said, “after Tuesday. I want to be up front about that.” “I figured you would.” “Is that okay?” He thought about it genuinely. “I don’t have anything to hide. What did you find?” She crossed one leg over the other and seemed to be deciding how to lay it out. “11 years in executive protection, private sector, not government, but with contracts that had government adjacency on several occasions.

You worked with a firm called Draylin Security Associates for most of it. They have a very good reputation, for what it’s worth, in circles that pay attention to that kind of thing. You were senior protection specialist for the last 4 years you were there.” She paused. “You protected some significant people.” “I did.” “Several of your former clients are names I know personally.

” He didn’t confirm or deny that. She accepted this without pressing. “Your file at Draylin She stopped. I want to be clear that I did not access any confidential records. The information I have is from public sources and from a few people who knew you professionally and were willing to speak generally. “What did they say?” “That you were one of the best they’d seen, that your situational awareness was” She paused, choosing her word, “remarkable.

That you left to take care of your daughter after losing your wife, and that the people who worked with you considered it a significant loss.” She looked at him steadily. “And that you never talked about yourself, which is consistent with what I’ve observed.” Ethan was quiet for a moment. There was something strange about hearing his own history recited back to him in a room full of clean lines and city views.

Not wrong, exactly, just strange, like seeing a photograph of yourself taken by someone else in a moment you didn’t know was being recorded. “Why did you want to see me?” he said. She seemed to appreciate the directness. A few reasons. The first one is simple. Uh I wanted to thank you properly. Not in an emergency, not in a room full of police and upset people.

Just directly. Okay. Thank you, she said. For paying attention when no one else was. For doing something about it when it would have been easier not to. For She stopped. And the stop was the same kind as in the ballroom. The kind where something internal snagged. For not letting what I said to you that morning change how you behaved that afternoon.

It didn’t occur to me to let it, he said. I know. That’s part of what I’m thanking you for. He looked out the window for a moment. The city was laid out below in its organized enormity. The kind of view that was supposed to be impressive and was despite the fact that he wasn’t particularly a man who was impressed by views.

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