VINCENT MOREAU
The plan was unfolding on schedule, and with all efficiency.
I watched from my own safe vantage point near their home and with a pair of binoculars-from a dark alleyway behind a gnarled oak tree opposite the house. I caught her shadowy form leaving the house, and thought that it was going well enough. Perfect.
Long, golden strips of light lay across the pavement from the late-afternoon sun, and there was a fine scent of long dead fallen leaves in the air. I spotted her slow, methodical walk, her coat flying slightly in the breeze, confirming that she had gone. The message I had sent-one painstakingly crafted to mimic Damian's brusque voice-had worked. To think she hadn't even hesitated, hadn't questioned, and had done it all for him without thought.
That was Eleanor whe
