Chapter Thirty-Four

Beau

Edgar is on edge. His eyes flick to the sidewalk multiple times every block. What’s he scanning for? I haven’t the faintest clue.

The first thing he does is rush me into his car. A Secret Service agent sits behind the wheel saying nothing. As soon as our doors are shut, he pulls away from the curb.

“What brings you to New York?” I ask neutrally.

Edgar takes a long, slow breath. “Extreme precaution.”

This kind of thing never happens. Then again, marathon meeting days in DC are rare, even given the sensitive nature of what I do.

“How can I help?”

Edgar turns to face me fully for the first time since we got in the car. “I need a personal walkthrough of all the properties.” His eyes search my face. He’s got dark half-moons under the bottom lids. This is a man who believes in maintaining himself so he’s able to do his job to the very greatest extent of his abilities. He is meticulous about getting enough sleep, about eating balanced meals. I’ve never seen him so tired. “That’s all I can say about it, Beau.”

He doesn’t apologize for how long this is going to take. The properties I’ve selected—and he had confirmed—are spread across the five boroughs, and in the regular push and pull of city traffic, not to mention rush hour, it’ll be a long evening. There’s no point in suggesting that we hasten things by taking the subway. The Secret Service would not allow it for a man like Edgar.

“Understood. I’ll need to let my driver know my plans so he’s not sitting by the curb for several hours.”

Edgar watches me like a hawk as I send a quick message to Winston. He watches so carefully that it becomes clear—Edgar is taking no chances. I don’t dare send another message to Annabel.

I put my phone away. Winston knows now to pick her up from the Pearl with a bouquet of flowers arranged by Michél, my florist. He’s a genius in his own right, and I hope Annabel will see that I am truly and sincerely sorry. I hope she’ll see that the flowers are only the beginning.

*****

I severely underestimate how long these walkthroughs are going to take. The Secret Service parks us where the clients—whoever they turn out to be—will park when they’re housed in these spaces. Not that they’ll have reason to drive anywhere most of the time, but there will be at least one trip from car to apartment. Edgar walks each route slowly, though not so slowly that he attracts any attention. When we stop at the front entrance, he pulls out a small notepad, scribbles notes into it, and then puts it back in his pocket.

We walk through the lobby. He takes notes.

We take the elevator. He takes notes.

He takes notes at the front door and at the doorway to every room.

This process is repeated seven times in seven different neighborhoods. It’s always the same. He never hurries, never cuts corners, never neglects to write down his observations in his notebook.

By the time we’ve completed the last walkthrough, my head is throbbing. It’s an aching, guilty pain. I’m three hours late to meet Annabel.

Edgar scans the building one last time, then puts his notebook in his pocket. “Let’s go.”

I wait in silence as the car pulls away from the curb. There is no doubt in my mind that an email will be forthcoming. Additional security might be the least of it. Someone will need to coordinate secure arrivals and be the point person in the city. With all this cloak-and-dagger business, I’m betting that person will be me.

Edgar is silent, too.

We’re almost back to my office building when the Secret Service agent makes a left turn onto a side street. My entire body tenses. This is my first priority when it comes to work. I know that. I also know—thanks to a single text from Winston—that Annabel is waiting for me in my penthouse. I curse myself silently for not telling Edgar to drop me off at home and not the office.

Edgar must sense my impatience. “There are a few more details to go over, and then we can drop you off wherever you wish.”

I give him a nod. I’m not going to shout at him—that’s never been my style. But I want to. God, do I want to.

We spend the next two hours in a greasy spoon I’ve never heard of in a neighborhood that doesn’t seem safe even with a Secret Service agent, but I’m not going to argue about it. Getting back to Annabel is all I care about.

Almost all my assumptions are proven true. Edgar still doesn’t give me the exact identities of the people who will be living in the apartments, but he details how the security features need to be wrapped in with the renovations. He gives me a separate phone, which will be used to contact me when the clients make their arrivals. I don’t ask him why these people are now the clients instead of the US government. It doesn’t seem need-to-know.

I’ve never been so relieved to get back into a car. They drop me off in front of my building. “We’ll be in contact,” Edgar says. The car is gone before I get to the door.

The elevator must be broken; it goes so slowly.

It’s dark in the penthouse, and it smells freshly cleaned. I had the cook stop by in case Annabel was hungry. She was—he texted me saying he’d prepared pork, salad, and mashed potatoes for her. None of it is out. Of course not. It’s after midnight.

I pad through the apartment to the master bedroom, which is where I find her, bathed in the glow of the television. She’s curled up under my comforter in the center of the bed. She startles when I step into the room.

“It’s you,” she breathes, and there’s a sadness in her voice that nearly breaks my heart.

“I am so sorry, sweetheart,” I tell her. “It was urgent.”

She lifts the blankets. She’s got nothing on except her tank top. “Make it up to me,” she says.

I do.