She couldn’t help grinning. Jackpot.

  She had no time to sift through all of these documents and figure out what they needed. Sydney thumbed through the files, noting their organizational pattern. Not by date, nor by letter, but by clients. She recognized the names of a few organizations known to work with Eli Morrison’s holdings.

  Files. What they needed.

  She pulled down another box. Noted the names.

  Pulled a third one down.

  There was a pattern to them now, sorted by oldest to newest. She shuffled her way to the end of the files, where a final stack of boxes sat. There, she pulled the top box off and opened it.

  Schedules. Ship departure times, counts of containers.

  Too little time. Sydney scanned the documents with her phone, as many as she could bear.

  Too little time, too little time.

  Outside, Sydney heard the slight crackle and beeps of security cameras coming online. She scanned a few more documents, then shoved the box back. Somewhere among what she had recorded on her phone must be evidence of Morrison’s recent trafficking.

  She tapped an image of Sauda on her phone, then started transmitting the first of the files.

  It didn’t even get a chance to start before she heard a voice behind her.

  “Busy?”

  Sydney whirled around and came face-to-face with Connor Doherty.

  She reacted instantly. Her leg came up—she kicked out at him, aiming for his throat. But he moved shockingly fast. This was no mere account manager. He’d been trained to kill.

  He dodged her move and seized her wrist instead. Sydney twisted out of his grasp, but before she could lunge at him again, he stepped back.

  No. Sydney darted forward, but the door slid closed in the blink of an eye. Before it shut completely, she caught a glimpse of Connor smiling at her, her phone in his hand.

  Then the door sealed, and the blue light went out, trapping her in darkness.

  27

  Silent Beat

  True to her word, Penelope was the first person Winter saw when his car passed through the gates of Kensington Palace and arrived at the pavilion.

  Against the backdrop of the palace’s Sunken Garden, the serenity of potted winter flowers and glittering red Christmas bulbs on hedges against a long, rectangular pool, she looked resplendent, dressed in a gold-studded leather jacket and a sweeping, pleated blue dress, her dark hair pulled up into an elegant bun. Ready for her birthday reception.

  Not that she seemed in the mood for a celebration. He could tell right away that she’d been crying; the corners of her eyes were still pink, the skin under her lids dark from lack of sleep. She looked small and stiff as she kept her arms folded tightly in front of her chest.

  Winter felt a twist of guilt in his stomach at what he was about to tell her.

  A bodyguard approached his door and opened it. As he stepped out, Penelope hurried over to him, offering him a small smile of greeting before looping her arm through his and leading him along the edge of the Sunken Garden’s central pool. They were early, of course, and the rest of the lush surroundings were dotted mostly with staff as they positioned enormous arrangements of Christmas roses in front of the heated pavilion. Birds chirped under the cold morning sun, and a fresh breeze chilled the air, setting the bushes trembling.

  The serenity of the space felt less like a peaceful moment and more like the silent beats in a song right before a heavy rhythm kicked in. The kind of quiet that tensed Winter’s muscles, warning of something big. He kept his hands in his pockets, his fingers fiddling with the pen from Panacea that he now had tucked against the inside lining. It wasn’t a huge weapon, but at least the pen’s hidden blade gave him some sense of protection.

  “How are you holding up?” Winter asked Penelope in a low voice.

  She didn’t look at him. The arm she’d looped through his was trembling, and through the fabric of his clothes, he could tell her hand was ice-cold.

  “Well enough,” she replied. “You?”

  “Same.”

  She looked behind him. “Where’s your bodyguard?”

  “Watching from a distance,” he replied. Then he leaned closer to her. “We need to have a talk.”

  She took a deep, shuddering breath. “If this is about the shooter, I—”

  “This isn’t about your shooter.” He cleared his throat. “It’s about your father.”

  “My father?” Her eyes darted up to his, hopeful and questioning. “You saw him? I’ve been trying to reach him since last night.”

  Winter paused for a moment, wondering if he should be the one to tell her. But anyone who might tell her now would be in Morrison’s circles, and someone had tried to kill her. So he leaned closer, posing as if he were just a boy flirting with a girl. A few staffers in the distance looked over at them, their expressions curious.

  “I’m deeply sorry to tell you this,” he said in a low voice. “But when I do, I need you to not show any emotions.”

  Fear flickered in her eyes, as if she was bracing herself for news she’d already assumed. She searched his face frantically.

  A pause. “Your father was killed last night.”

  They kept walking.

  Penelope managed to keep a straight face, her eyes downcast. But he felt the tremor that shuddered through her body, the sudden stiffness of her posture, the way she clung to his arm as if she might fall. He steadied against her, pulling her arm to his body. The color had drained from her face in the changing light. So, she hadn’t heard.

  “I’m so sorry,” he whispered again.

  “That’s impossible,” she whispered back.

  “Believe me, I wish I could tell you something different,” he said softly.

  “He’s just busy,” she answered in a firm voice tinged with anger. Her eyes went up now, going to the pavilion and the thick winter roses cascading down its sides. “He’s scheduled to show up here in an hour. He’s going to lead a toast.”

  She met his eyes defiantly again. It was all he could do to give her a grave look in return.

  She started shaking her head, and he squeezed her hand slightly as it clenched at the crook of his elbow. His gaze darted to the people milling about inside the pavilion.

  “I know the weight of what I’m asking from you,” he whispered to her, “but try to keep your composure. You aren’t safe here.”

  But Penelope just pulled her arm away. “No, you don’t understand. He said—he told me—”

  “Told you what? When did you last speak to him?”

  “When you were performing on the stage.” Her eyes darted from the pavilion to him. “When we were at the Alexandra Palace. He told me he’d be here.”

  He gave her a sad look. “I’m so sorry.”

  She swallowed hard, and behind her incredulity, he could see her struggling to hold the tears back. Her eyes went back to the ground again. She was good at it, this restraint. He wondered how many times in the past she’d had to do it, and what for.

  “How can you possibly know this?” she said hoarsely. “Why do you know?”

  “I can’t tell you everything yet,” he replied. “But whoever targeted you last night in your apartment also targeted your father. They succeeded with him. Might mean they’ll make another attempt with you.”

  “He died when we were in my flat?” she whispered.

  Winter nodded.

  She took his arm again, this time as if for support. He could feel her hand trembling slightly against his elbow, her grip so tight that her knuckles had turned white.

  “I need to tell someone,” she suddenly said.

  “No.”

  Anger flashed through her gaze. “You don’t have the right to tell me that.”

  The words came out of Winter sharper than he intended. “Maybe not,” he replied. “But you have to listen to me. Please. You can’t tell anyone else.”

  “But I—”

  Winter stopped their walk for a moment and turned to face her. He leaned down to her ear so that no one else could see his lips moving. “We don’t know who did it,” he whispered, “and that means everyone close to you is a potential suspect.”

  When he pulled slightly away, she was glaring at him, eyes glossy with suspicion. “Including you.”

  “I have absolutely nothing to gain from hurting you.”

  “Why should I believe that?”

  “I can’t give you any convincing evidence,” he replied, “other than the truth that your life depends on it.”

  She tightened her lips at him, as if trying to reconcile this with the faith she had in her idol, and then looked back at the party. More guests had arrived now.

  “What do you want me to do?” she finally murmured.

  “Leave with me.”

  She blinked at him. “What? When?”

  “As soon as you can slip away.”

  “You mean—now?” She looked around helplessly. “I can’t.” She swallowed again and pulled back on his arm. “My guests.”

  Now she truly looked like she might fly into a frantic state. Winter’s mind whirled, trying to figure out what to do if she were to have a breakdown here. How would he explain it? How would he get them out of here?

  “I know. But we don’t have a choice.”

  “There—there are a thousand dignitaries and elite here from all over the world. Connor will expect to see me the instant he arrives.” Her speech quickened, breathless with fear, and suddenly Winter realized she might be in danger from the accountant. “He’ll be here any moment. We won’t make it halfway to the airport before he realizes I’m gone.”

  He couldn’t let Connor lead Penelope somewhere after her toast.

  “It’s going to be okay,” he said to her. “We’ll both make our appearance in front of your cake, so you can say a few words. Just for an hour. Can you do that?”

  She nodded numbly.

  “Good. Make our appearance, put the crowd’s minds at ease, and then leave as everyone mingles. They won’t notice you’re gone after you’ve already said your piece.”

  Penelope stopped walking. There was a lost expression on her face that felt familiar to him, the loneliness of being used to bearing things on her own, and he found himself feeling afraid, wondering if he could really keep her safe, if he and Sydney could pull all of this off.

  Then she straightened, forcing herself to lift her chin. He could still see the gloss in her eyes. But when she spoke, her voice stayed steady enough to disguise her emotions.

  “Come with me,” she said without looking at him. “I need to greet some people.”

  He nodded and followed in her wake. As he did, he typed out a quick message to Sydney.

  She’ll leave with us.

  He stared at his phone for a few seconds, hoping to see a reply.

  Nothing. He put his phone away reluctantly, then went with Penelope to greet her first guest. In the back of his mind, he kept waiting for the reassuring buzz of Sydney’s answer. She always responded.

  But this time, she didn’t.

  28

  Bullseye

  It wasn’t until the sun had moved overhead and the shadows in the garden disappeared that Winter finally got a response from Sydney.

  His phone buzzed right as Penelope cut into her cake, that trained smile still plastered on her face. As the audience around her in the pavilion cheered and flashes went off, Winter took a subtle step back from the crowd and looked at the message that had popped up for him.

  Where are you?

  Overwhelming relief. That was Winter’s first reaction. The message had clearly been sent from Sydney’s phone, and he knew she must still be transmitting from inside the museum. Her tracker said as much.

  His second reaction was confusion. Sydney should be able to see the tracker he’d left behind, still broadcasting from the living room of the house. She should think he was there.

  Also, it was an oddly wordy message from her. Sydney used abbreviations in her messages every chance she got—she didn’t type anything out fully if she didn’t have to. He would have expected her to write, Where r u? Or even just Wru? and leave him to figure it out on his own.

  Maybe she was concerned about him, and wanted to make sure he understood her on his first read. Maybe she was dictating the words out loud into her phone and it translated her words properly.

  The crowd around him laughed in unison at something that Penelope said. He texted back.

  Birthday reception.

  He braced himself after he sent it, waiting for her reprimand—that instead of being on a plane, he was still here and preparing to help Penelope escape with him.

  Her reply came.

  Okay.

  Winter stopped, frowning down at his phone.

  No sarcasm, no annoyance over why he was running around London. No comment on why his tracker was still broadcasting from the house.

  But most of all, the word Okay spelled perfectly out.

  Sydney never wrote out Okay. She would have just sent the letter K.

  Winter felt a shiver crawl down his spine. The image of Sydney faded from his mind like a puff of smoke. Nobody stood on the other side now except darkness. His hands tightened against the sides of his phone, and he tried to keep his breathing even.

  What if the person sending him messages wasn’t Sydney?

  That would only mean one thing.

  Something had happened to her.

  Around him, people let out a cheer as Penelope popped a bottle of champagne and laughed as she poured it over an elaborate tower of glasses. Still no Connor Doherty present.

  Winter had felt the buzz of danger back when Sauda had ushered him into that car after his concert—but this time, the buzz was real. It traveled to his hands and down his spine, sending rivulets of heat through him. Something was unraveling.

  Whoever it was on Sydney’s phone wanted him to stay.

  He needed to get out of here.

  There was a storm on the horizon—he could see the edge of dark clouds slicing right behind London’s cityscape beyond the garden, spilling darkness across a beautiful afternoon sky, hinting at the downpour that would come later. The sensation churning in Winter’s head now reminded him of the night when he’d heard his mother’s broken conversation downstairs, when they’d first learned of Artie’s death. His head filled with fog. He had the strange feeling that he wasn’t even here.

  He didn’t care about the failed mission anymore.

  All he could think about was Sydney.

  She must have gotten caught.

  I should have gone with her.

  Then, through the blur of his thoughts, he saw Penelope look in his direction. She still looked shaken, but she gestured for him to step forward.

  “—to the boy who helped make this celebration one for the history books!” she said now as Winter reached her. “And one who certainly needs no introduction.”

  The crowd around them screamed their approval. Penelope handed Winter the microphone, and he took it, fighting to contain his composure. Minutes after this, he was supposed to lead Penelope off the main floor and, as the crowd gathered around the cake, take her down the garden’s hedge maze and away into a cab heading for the airport.

  But something had happened to Sydney.

  He forced a smile onto his face. His gaze swept out at the audience, seeing a thousand faces and unable to hang on to any of them. Everyone looked like a suspect.

  Then Penelope’s eyes flickered to the crowd, just for a second.

  He looked in the same direction. As he did, he saw something glint.

  There was no time for him to do anything.

  The pop was muffled, the sound so muted by the cheers of the audience and the echo of his own voice that Winter didn’t hear it.

  One instant, he was standing—the next, he was hurtling backward. The shock rocketed his shoulder before the pain hit him.

  He hit the ground with a thud. It knocked the breath out of him in a single whoosh.

  He heard a rush of confused gasps ripple around him. Then a couple of screams.

  Winter gasped for air. Was he lying on the floor? How had he gotten down here? He tried to get up, but pain seared his shoulder and he cried out.

  Now there were people rushing toward him—black-suited bodyguards, guests in tuxes screaming for someone to call the police. The tang of something metallic hung in the air.

  Blood?

  Somewhere far away, he thought he could hear someone calling his name. Winter. Winter!

  Where had Penelope gone?

  There were more people now. Pain pulsed from his upper chest, leaving him frozen. The world began to close around him, funneling his vision down to nothing. He had the vague sensation of being hoisted up in someone’s arms, his body being limp. The last thought that flittered across his mind was realization of what had just happened.

  He’d just been shot.

  29

  The Good Daughter

  For a while, all he was aware of was the pain.

  It washed over him in waves—the agony rippled from his shoulder to his limbs to every part of his body, a throbbing ache that left him short of breath.

  His mind swam in what felt like mud. There had been the distant sensation of someone lifting him onto a gurney and wheeling him away, of medics in forest green uniforms, of strangers shouting down at him, asking him if he would be okay.

  He thought he could remember the interior of a truck. The screams of a crowd that had flooded outside to see the vehicle drive off with him in it. The shrieks of an ambulance wailing from directly outside. The rumble under the vehicle from the road. A murmur from his lips that came and went.

  Sydney. Sydney.

  Someone else had been sitting in the truck with him, too. Penelope Morrison.

  Even in that state, he’d known that was wrong. Penelope shouldn’t have been inside the ambulance with him. She’d looked deadly calm, her voice low as she’d exchanged some words with the driver. The driver had answered her politely and turned as she directed.