The Boston Public Library is beautiful in a way I'd forgotten during the chaos of the last few weeks.
I arrive fifteen minutes early, flanked by two guards from the new security firm Sarah recommended. They're professional, discreet, and most importantly—mine. Not Marcus's. Not Viktor's. Mine.
Their names are James and Keiko. James is former Secret Service, built like a brick wall but with kind eyes. Keiko is ex-military intelligence, sharp and observant, with a dry sense of humor I already appreciate.
"We'll be close but not obvious," Keiko says as we enter. "If you need us, touch your left ear. That's the signal."
"Got it."
I chose the main reading room for the meeting. Open, public, cameras everywhere. Hard to do anything sinister surrounded by tourists and students.
I find a tabl
