The safehouse was a rental cabin nestled between pines, two hours inland.
Emerie stepped through the door just after dawn, Reyes right behind her. No makeup. No heels. Just her real skin and an oversized hoodie someone had thrown in the back of the SUV.
She sank into the couch, eyes hollow.
Reyes set a cup of coffee in front of her. “It's done. The servers are clean. The drives are secured. Antony Macadam will be indicted within the week."
Emerie stared at the black liquid.
“I should feel something," she whispered.
Reyes sat across from her. “You've been surviving for months. It's okay not to feel yet."
She looked up. “There are people still in that villa. Staff. Maids. The guard with a limp—he gave me extra food when he thought no one was looking."
Reyes frowned. “They're complici
