Julian Harrington closed his briefcase, stood up, and straightened his cuffs.
“It really was a magnificent performance, Vesper,” Julian said, offering a small, mocking bow.“The match on the welcome mat?
The broken plastic arm of the hospital chair?
The threat to the emergency room doctor?
Pure, unadulterated cinema.
The Directorate would be proud.
We’ve left two million dollars in an offshore escrow account under the name Samantha Vance.
Enough to keep you in fertilizer and potting soil for three lifetimes.
Take it.
Walk away.
Let the next generation manage the ledger.”
I sat in the metal chair under the humming fluorescent tubes.
I didn’t look at the paper in my hand.I didn’t look at Julian’s tailored suit.
I looked at the small, dark freckle just beneath Chloe’s left collarbone—the mark she had been born with, the one I had kissed every night when she was four years old and terrified of the shadows on her bedroom ceiling.
