Page 169 of Black Reign

Not enough.

Never enough.

I’m standing beside the windows of Blackwell’s Mayfair offices with my father’s ARGUS file open across three screens when NULL pulses against my watch.

For the last six days, my life has narrowed into two equally infuriating problems.

Adrien Beaumont.

And Vesper.

The first is dead.

The second refuses to stay still long enough for me to decide whether I want to find her, kiss her, interrogate her, or lock her inside a room until she explains why she seems determined to turn my entire existence into an elaborate game of hide-and-seek.

Possibly all four.

I open NULL.

No message.

Photograph.

My pulse reacts before the file finishes loading.

Water.

Gray sky.

Stone.

London Bridge.

I stop breathing for half a second.

She’s there.

Again.

This photograph is closer than the last.

More dangerous.

Caramel-brown hair whips across one side of her face. I can see the line of her chin now. The soft slope of one cheek. The faintest suggestion of a nose turned toward the Thames.

Still no eyes.

Still not enough of her face for recognition software.

No useful reflection.

No metadata.

Nothing embedded.

Naturally.

But she gave me more.