Chapter 1 - The First Thread in ParisThe rain in Paris did not fall like New York rain. It did not hit the pavement with the angry, frantic haste of a city late for an appointment. It drifted over the Seine in a fine, silver mist, blurring the stone bridges and the gray mansard roofs into something cinematic, mournful, and entirely unreal.
I sat at a corner table of a small cafe on Rue de Bac, a steaming cup of cafe au lait cooling between my hands, watching the reflection of my coat in the polished glass. On the table beside my phone sat the silver locket.
Through the tiny earpiece in my left ear, the world of the Upper East Side hummed with the intimacy of a wiretap.
“He’s gone to the tailor, Mr. Pierce,” a voice whispered softly. It was Cole. His voice was steady, filtered through the secure satellite relay Alexander had set up for me. “The bespoke tux is being boxed right now. Midnight blue with black silk lapels. Very traditional. Very dramatic. For a wedding that doesn't legally exist yet.”
“And the bride?” I asked, my voice barely audible over the clatter of a ceramic saucer.
“Miss Vivienne Vance—excuse me, Vivienne Moore—is currently at the Carlyle. She’s had four fittings this week alone. The champagne is flowing. She thinks she’s marrying the future king of New York real estate.”
A quiet, cold satisfaction unspooled in my chest.
Vivienne Moore. The daughter of a minor municipal zoning commissioner who had signed off on Caldwell Enterprises’ irregular coastal permits two years ago. Cameron had traded a signature for a secretary, then traded the secretary for a social climber with a taste for heirloom diamonds. She thought she was stepping into the Sullivan-Caldwell dynasty. She did not know she was stepping into a courtroom exhibit.
“Keep the recorder running, Cole,” I instructed quietly, slipping a Euro note onto the table. “And make sure Alexander has the flight manifests for the private jet to Nantucket.”
“Already secured,” Cole replied. “Your brother doesn't miss a beat. He’s already frozen three of Caldwell’s primary liquidity accounts under the guise of an international audit compliance check. By tomorrow afternoon, Cameron’s credit cards are going to start declining at high-end restaurants.”
I stood up, pulling the cream wool coat tighter around my shoulders, and stepped out into the Parisian drizzle.
Cameron thought he had sent me away to clear the chessboard. He thought Paris was a cage made of silk and pastry shops designed to keep me out of his way while he said his vows before a small, hand-picked audience of corrupt associates in Nantucket. He thought he had successfully buried the daughter of Jonathan Sullivan.
He was about to discover that some ghosts don't haunt the attic. They buy the building.
My phone vibrated in my pocket. A text message from an unknown number.
“The groom is packing his bags, Audrey. He leaves for Nantucket in six hours. Are you ready?”
May you like
I looked up at the grey Paris sky, feeling the cold rain brush my cheek, and smiled.
"I was born ready," I whispered, and stepped into a waiting black cab.
