Beatrice.
Two months in Panama had taught me to sleep light.
Two months of looking over my shoulder. Two months of pretending Beatrice Witherspoon was real while Scarlett Pierre rotted in a grave at the bottom of the Thames. Two months of building a life from lies and hoping no one looked close enough to see the cracks.
Tonight, every lesson I'd learned shattered.
"Ten seconds, Mrs. Pierre."
The voice through the door was patient. Almost kind. That made it worse somehow—the politeness of a predator who knew its prey was cornered.
Gerald's gun was out. His body positioned between me and the door. His jaw set in that way that meant he was ready to die fighting.
I couldn't let that happen.
"Wait!" My voice cracked. "I'm coming! Just—just give me a second to get dressed!"
Silence. The
