The roar of Rosw’s armored SUV was the only sound cutting through the sepulchral silence of the New York dawn. We had fled the Phoenix Gala at the Pierre Hotel like we were escaping a crime scene, my midnight-blue velvet gown now wrinkled and out of place against the cold leather of the seat.
Rosw was leaned forward, his encrypted phone pressed to his ear, his face a mask of contained fury. His knuckles were white as he held the silver feather card—the one the waiter had delivered minutes ago.
"What do you mean there’s no sign of a struggle?" Rosw barked into the receiver. "Arthur, that medical facility was supposed to be impenetrable. There were three security teams on rotation!"
I heard Arthur’s static voice through the speaker, sounding more tense than I’d ever heard him.
"Sir, the
