Chapter 2Buried Evidence

The file sat open on Vera’s kitchen counter at 6:47 AM, its contents spread like a prosecutor’s opening statement. Her own life, reduced to photographs and printed emails. A shot of her leaving the Belmont Hotel last month. A screenshot of a deleted social media account she’d used three years ago. A list of five names—former clients—with question marks beside each.

Morgan had been watching her for months. Not guessing. *Knowing.*

Vera’s phone buzzed. She ignored it, fingers tracing the edge of a photograph she didn’t recognize—herself at a coffee shop, talking to a man whose face had been redacted. The camera had been across the street. Professional.

The knock came before she could process the rest.

She swept the file into a drawer, slid the photographs beneath a stack of mail, and opened the door with practiced calm.

Morgan stood in the hallway wearing dark jeans and a leather jacket that cost more than Vera’s rent. No makeup. Hair pulled back. She looked like she hadn’t slept either.

“You’re up early,” Morgan said.

“Couldn’t sleep.” Vera stepped aside. “Come in.”

Morgan didn’t move. “We’re going. Now.”

“Where?”

“Elena’s office. She’s at a brunch fundraiser until noon. We have three hours.”

Vera’s pulse ticked up. “You want to break into her office.”

“I want to find evidence that ties her to the job she gave you.” Morgan’s eyes flicked past Vera, scanning the apartment. “Unless you have a better idea.”

Vera thought of the file in her drawer. The photograph of herself she hadn’t known existed. She wanted ten minutes alone with those documents, but Morgan wasn’t going to give her ten seconds.

“Give me a minute,” Vera said.

She walked to the kitchen, pulled out her phone, and snapped a photo of the file’s contents through the gap in the drawer. The image came out blurry, but readable. Then she grabbed her bag and followed Morgan out the door.

---

The car smelled like leather and something floral—Morgan’s perfume, faint but unmistakable. Vera had expected a Mercedes or a BMW. Instead, Morgan drove a beat-up Subaru with a cracked dashboard and a coffee stain on the passenger seat.

“Surprised?” Morgan asked, noticing her look.

“I expected something flashier.”

“I own a gallery. I spend my money on art, not appearances.” Morgan merged onto the highway. “Elena and I went to Columbia together. Art history program. She was sharp, ambitious, and completely ruthless even then.”

Vera kept her voice neutral. “Close friends?”

“We ran in the same circles. She dated my brother for six months. When he ended it, she didn’t take it well.” Morgan’s hands tightened on the wheel. “I didn’t realize she was still holding a grudge until you showed up at that gala.”

“You didn’t know she hired someone?”

“I suspected she was behind something. I didn’t know the details until I saw you working Julian.”

Vera filed that away. Morgan had been tracking *her*, not Elena. Which meant the connection between them might be looser than she’d assumed.

“What about the phone call?” Vera asked. “The one from Elena that came through while we were talking.”

Morgan’s jaw tightened. “She’s been calling me for weeks. I stopped answering.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not stupid enough to let her drag me into whatever she’s planning.”

The answer was smooth. Too smooth. Vera nodded as if she believed it.

---

The office building was six stories of glass and steel in the financial district. Morgan produced a key card from her pocket.

“How did you get that?”

“I stole it from her purse at a charity event last week.”

Vera blinked. “You’ve been planning this.”

“I’ve been waiting for the right partner.” Morgan swiped the card. The door clicked open. “You’re it.”

They took the stairs to the fourth floor. Elena Vance’s office occupied the corner suite—nameplate on the door, blinds drawn, a faint light from the street casting shadows across the reception area.

Morgan worked the lock with practiced efficiency. Thirty seconds, and the door swung open.

Inside, the office was pristine. White walls, minimalist furniture, a single orchid on the desk. Everything calculated to project control.

“Check the desk,” Morgan said. “I’ll look at the files.”

Vera moved to the desk, pulling open drawers with careful precision. Stationery. A laptop she didn’t touch. A drawer full of protein bars and a single photograph of Elena with a man Vera didn’t recognize.

The bottom drawer was locked.

She pulled a hairpin from her pocket—old habit—and worked the lock. It clicked open.

Inside: a burner phone. Cheap, black, untraceable.

Vera powered it on. The call log showed five recent calls to an unknown number, all within the past week. The most recent was yesterday, at 11:47 PM.

“Find anything?” Morgan called from across the room.

“Maybe.” Vera pocketed the phone. “You?”

“Client files. Most of them are legitimate, but there’s a folder with names I recognize. Politicians. Socialites. People who would pay to destroy someone’s reputation.”

Footsteps echoed in the hallway.

Vera’s blood went cold. She looked at Morgan, who was already moving toward the door.

“Closet. Now.”

They slipped inside as the footsteps grew louder. The closet was narrow, barely enough room for both of them. Morgan pressed against her, back to chest, and Vera could feel her breathing—controlled, shallow, professional.

A key turned in the lock. The office door swung open.

Vera held her breath. Through the slats in the closet door, she watched a man in a security uniform walk to the desk, pick up a piece of paper, and scan it. He lingered for a moment, then left, closing the door behind him.

They waited thirty seconds. Then Morgan exhaled.

“That was close.”

Vera didn’t move. She could feel Morgan’s heartbeat through her jacket, steady and strong. The proximity was dangerous in ways that had nothing to do with security guards.

“We need to go,” Vera said.

Morgan nodded. They slipped out of the closet, crossed the office, and eased the door open. The hallway was empty.

They took the stairs down, moved through the lobby with casual confidence, and emerged into the alley behind the building. Rain had started falling, a cold drizzle that soaked through Vera’s jacket.

Morgan took a step, stumbled, and swore.

“What happened?”

“Twisted my ankle on the fire escape.” Morgan’s face was pale, teeth gritted. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine.” Vera knelt, examined the ankle. Already swelling. “You can’t walk on that.”

“I can manage.”

“Don’t be stupid.”

Vera pulled Morgan’s arm over her shoulder, wrapped an arm around her waist, and helped her down the alley. Morgan was taller, heavier, but Vera had spent years learning to carry burdens. She supported Morgan’s weight without complaint, navigating the wet pavement until they reached a covered alcove.

She lowered Morgan to the ground, knelt beside her, and examined the ankle again.

“It’s not broken,” Vera said. “But you need to stay off it for a few days.”

“I don’t have a few days.”

“Then you’ll make it worse.”

Morgan looked at her. The rain had plastered strands of hair to her face, and her eyes were dark, unreadable. “Why do you care?”

The question caught Vera off guard. She opened her mouth to give a practiced answer—*because I need you alive*—but the words wouldn’t come.

“I don’t know,” she said honestly.

Morgan’s phone buzzed.

She pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and her face went still.

Vera saw the message over her shoulder:

*She knows. Get rid of her.*

The sender was Elena.

Vera’s heart stopped. She looked up at Morgan, searching for guilt, for betrayal, for any sign that the trap was real.

But Morgan’s expression was unreadable. She held the phone loosely, like it was a weapon she hadn’t decided to use.

“Vera,” she said slowly, “I need you to trust me.”

The rain fell harder. The burner phone felt heavy in Vera’s pocket. And somewhere in the darkness, the game she thought she understood shifted into something far more dangerous.

She didn’t know if Morgan was her ally.

She didn’t know if she was walking into a trap.

But she knew one thing for certain: she was out of options.