The Basement Wolf

Chapter 12. Branches and Shadows

The bark bit into her thighs through the thin fabric of her jeans, sticky with sap where her palm gripped for balance. Sandra had forgotten the last time she climbed a tree. Maybe twelve years old? That felt like another lifetime, another version of her, someone who didn’t know what a hollow in the chest could feel like.

The pine smelled sharp and damp, resin bleeding from old scars. She leaned against the trunk, knees locked around a thick branch, breath steady only because she forced it to be. From here, she saw the mansion like a secret unwrapped: pale stone walls, slate roof, wide terrace spilling into a courtyard of manicured gravel. A pool lay at the center like a slice of stolen sky, its water darkening with the stretch of late afternoon.

And there—by the pool—movement.

Sandra blinked hard. Her pulse stuttered, then lunged. The boy knelt on the coping, one hand trailing the surface, making ripples that broke the clean reflection into ribbons. Gray T-shirt clinging to his shoulders, sneakers scuffed to ghosts. His head tilted, lips moving as if telling the water a story. The sound didn’t reach her, but the curve of his smile detonated inside her ribs.

Liam. Her Liam. Alive. Whole. For a few seconds, her bones forgot how to hold her weight.

She shifted and a branch complained with a brittle crack. The boy’s head jerked—but not toward her. Toward the house. Toward the sound of a door sighing open. He sprang up, that easy, springy run still in his body, and vanished inside like a swallow into dusk.

Sandra’s fingers dug into bark. She wanted to jump—crash down through needles, hit the ground running, storm the terrace. Her muscles twitched with the old reflex of a mother reaching for a falling child. But there were men with guns beyond the glass. And cameras. And the weight of a promise she’d made to herself in the dark: I will not fail him again.

“Nice view,” a voice murmured, low, amused.

Sandra twisted so fast the tree spun under her. A shape hauled itself onto the branch below—lean arms, dark jacket, the casual grace of someone who belonged everywhere, even here. A grin curved like a hook under eyes too sharp to be trusted.

Bradley.

“How the hell—” she began, whisper snapping like a twig.

“Shh.” He swung up beside her, the branch dipping with his weight, and suddenly the space felt stolen, intimate. His shoulder brushed hers before he settled astride the bark, one hand braced near her hip. “You’ll spook the locals,” he added, tilting his chin toward the mansion. “And by locals I mean the guy with the submachine gun by the French doors.”

She wanted to tell him to back off, to keep his heat and his scent—clean soap, faint tobacco—out of her lungs. Instead she dragged her focus like a stubborn animal back to the courtyard. Empty now. Liam gone.

Bradley followed her gaze. “Saw him, didn’t you?”

Her throat locked. “I saw enough.”

He nodded once, like a man making a note on an invisible pad. Then, lightly: “So… you come here often? Tree-climbing suits you.”

“Bradley.” She bit the name. “Say what you came to say.”

“I came to discuss logistics.” His breath brushed her ear as he leaned past to test the sturdiness of the branch. “Also to make sure you don’t fall and break something I might need later.”

She shot him a glare sharp enough to skin him. He only smiled, slow and unrepentant, and inched closer along the branch until their knees nearly touched.

“Security sweep runs every seven minutes,” he murmured. “One guard, two cameras on the west wing—old models. East side has a newer toy.” He angled his head toward the gleaming dome perched under the eaves. “Thermal, maybe. But here’s the good news.” His fingers drummed on bark—right next to her thigh. “There’s a service gate behind those hedges. Electronic lock. They’re lazy with updates; my guess, it’s still running the factory firmware. I can ghost it in twenty seconds.”

Sandra forced her voice level. “And once we ghost it?”

“Next week, they’re hosting a little soirée.” His tone made the word ripple with irony. “Not a wedding, unless you count unholy unions. Fancy people, high collars, champagne that tastes like someone rinsed a peach in vinegar.”

She frowned. “And that helps us… how?”

“I know the catering manager.” His grin flashed white in the green dusk. “Which means I can slide someone onto the temp staff. Someone with steady hands, good reflexes…” His eyes skimmed her face like a fingertip. “…and a talent for pretending she belongs.”

The branch felt narrower by the second. “You want me in their kitchen.”

“I want you inside without a gun to your head.” His shoulder brushed hers again, deliberate. “Apron beats handcuffs, don’t you think?”

Sandra pictured it: white plates, silver knives, laughter spilling like oil across marble floors while her heart beat like a trapped bird. She gripped the trunk harder, nails biting bark. Focus. Liam. Not him.

Bradley’s voice dropped, velvet and blade. “Of course, if you’d rather storm the front door in that little leather jacket—” His gaze dipped, wicked. “—I’d pay to watch.”

“Stay professional,” she hissed.

He chuckled, low. “Define professional. I’m here on a tree branch whispering sweet felonies in your ear.”

She turned on him, ready to scorch—but he only held her stare, calm and hungry, until the seconds felt molten. Heat curled in places she had locked down years ago. She hated that he could find the keys.

“Back to business,” she said, and the steel in her voice almost convinced her. “How do we get me on that list?”

“Leave that to me.” He shifted, thigh grazing hers as if by accident—except Bradley didn’t believe in accidents. “You’ll show up as Sonia Mendez, culinary temp. Black slacks, white shirt, hair in a net. If anyone asks, you make a mean ceviche.”

“I can barely make toast,” she muttered.

“Then smile like you invented knives.” His lips quirked. “They’ll be too busy drooling over foie gras to notice.”

A branch creaked below—footsteps on gravel. Bradley froze, head c****d. A guard strolled past the hedges, phone glowing in his palm. Never looked up. The sound of his boots faded toward the gate.

Bradley exhaled near her cheek. “See? They expect danger on the ground.” His fingers brushed higher on the trunk, close enough to warm her skin through denim. “Not in the trees.”

“Bradley.” Her voice was a whip-crack. “Hands.”

He didn’t move them right away. His eyes gleamed like wet stone. “Relax. I’m making sure the bark doesn’t eat you alive.”

“Nice try.” She shifted, breaking the contact, and her heart slammed because for a second she’d wanted to lean into it. Stupid. Dangerous. She dug her nails into her palm and pictured Liam’s smile—that wild, careless spark. For him, not this. For him.

Bradley cleared his throat, all business now—or close enough to fake it. “Funds came through?”

She pulled her phone from her jacket, shielding the screen with her palm. The transfer gleamed in sterile digits: Malcolm’s name, the sum like a silent dare. She angled it so Bradley could see.

“Beautiful,” he murmured. “Not as beautiful as you straddling this branch, but—”

“Bradley.”

“Fine. Spoilsport.” He sobered, tapping the phone before she pocketed it. “That covers gear, entry badge, a few toys to keep the cameras blind. I’ll send you the menu and floor plan. Learn them. On the night, boredom is your camouflage.”

“When?” she asked.

“Next Saturday. Load-in starts at three. Party hits full swing by sunset.” His tone hardened. “You’ll stick to prep and plate-running unless I say otherwise. And Sandra—” He waited until her eyes locked on his. “If you see him, you don’t flinch. You don’t look twice. You’re Sonia the server. Nothing else. Got it?”

Her throat closed around glass. She nodded.

“Good girl.” The words were soft, almost tender—too tender—and her pulse tripped like a thief. He added, “I’ll be inside too. Somewhere you won’t see me. But I’ll see you.”

“Comforting,” she said dryly, because anything else would scorch her tongue.

Bradley grinned, that lazy blade of a smile, and began his descent. “Try not to fall for me before Saturday.”

She almost threw a pinecone at his head. “In your dreams.”

“Every night,” he tossed back, and then he was gone, swallowed by leaves, soundless as smoke.

Sandra stayed a long minute, gripping the branch until splinters pressed crescents into her skin. Below, the courtyard glowed with early lights. Voices drifted through glass. Somewhere in that maze of rooms was a boy who still believed water could keep secrets.

She eased down finally, boots kissing the ground with a muffled thud. Her phone vibrated before she reached the fence: Unknown Number.

Birds sometimes bring branches. You—just bring the right one on the right day.

No signature. Didn’t need one.

She typed: I’m not a bird. Deleted it.

Typed: I’m a storm that knows how to hold a cup of tea. Deleted that too, scowling at her own softness. Left the screen blank, slid the phone away.

At the car, a plastic bag waited on the seat: black slacks, white shirt, hair net. On top, a badge in glossy plastic: Sonia.

Sandra held it between two fingers, the name blurring as dusk pooled in the windshield. A borrowed name for a borrowed role. But her resolve—sharp, bone-deep—was real.

She clipped the badge to her jacket and whispered to the empty lot, to the iron sky, to herself:

“Next Saturday. At sunset. I walk through their door. And I bring him home.”