Page 8 of Shadow

Two FBI agents emerged from the courthouse in dark suits and polished shoes, credentials gleaming in the morning light. The older one—gray at the temples, crow’s feet deep—nodded at Daphne as Angela let her go.

“Good work, Cross. Clean handoff.”

Clean. As if three weeks of living in Angela’s shadow while a corrupt senator threw money at hired killers was some sort of spa vacation.

“She’s all yours.” Daphne stepped back.

Angela moved toward the agents, stopped, then turned back.

“You’re the hero here, not me. I mean it. Thank you for keeping me alive.”

The words landed somewhere in Daphne’s chest. The place she tried not to acknowledge still existed.

“Stay safe, Angela.”

Then Daphne walked away. Down the courthouse steps. Across the plaza, where commuters hurried toward coffee shops and office buildings. November in Seattle meant rain, but today the sky held back with gray clouds threatening but not delivering.

Her car waited in the lot—reliable Toyota Camry, forgettable silver, four years old but well maintained.

Daphne slid into the driver’s seat and exhaled.

Done.

Angela Carter was back in federal hands. Safe and alive.

Thirty-two for thirty-two. Perfect record.

Daphne started the engine. Her phone buzzed on the passenger seat—payment confirmation. Wire transfer complete.

Good. Now she could go home. A bath and a glass of wine awaited her.

Twenty-three minutes later, she parked in the lot behind her apartment building, a converted 1908 Craftsman on a leafy First Hill block, all wide eaves and a deep front porch. Daphne loved it for the quiet, the south light, the way the place felt at once significant, sturdy, and unmovable.

She grabbed her mail from the brass box, climbed to her second-floor corner, and unlocked the door.

Late-morning light poured in through the bay window, gilding the pine floors. The kitchen had been updated without losing its bones—shaker cabinets in soft gray, a run of white subway tile, and her mother’s old round table with the creaky chairs. Down the short hall, the bedroom overlooked the shared garden—a hush of rhododendrons and a Japanese maple.

She set the mail on the oak mantel, listened for the building’s familiar creaks, and felt the place settle around her like a well-worn coat.

Her apartment smelled like the lavender sachets she kept in her closet and the faint mustiness of a space closed up for three weeks. It was small. One bedroom. A kitchen that opened to a living room barely big enough for her couch and TV. But it was hers.

Alone at last.

She headed into the bathroom. The bathtub was her one luxury—a deep, old-fashioned claw-foot tub that actually fit her whole body if she angled right.

Outside, the block was quiet and green, a pocket between hospitals and galleries—close enough to hear the streetcar bell if the windows were open, far enough that nights stayed gentle. She turned on the hot water. Steam rose immediately. The pipes groaned—her building was old, the 1908 Craftsman having been converted to apartments in the seventies—but hot water poured out.

She added the bath salts. Eucalyptus and mint. The scent filled the small bathroom with sharp, clean air—the opposite of three weeks in motel rooms that smelled like industrial cleaner and desperation.

While the tub filled slowly, she headed to the bedroom and slid out of her tactical jacket, unclipped her Glock from the shoulder holster, and set it on the bedside table—loaded, safety on, within reach.

In the living room, her couch waited with that exact spot on the left side where the cushion had molded to her body. The remote sat on the coffee table right where she’d left it. Her bookshelf held paperback romances lined up by author.

Daphne walked to the kitchen and opened the fridge.

Empty except for condiments and a questionable container of leftover Chinese food. Right.

She pulled a bottle of cabernet sauvignon from the cabinet, siphoned out a glass with a Coravin, and let the wine breathe. It was five o’clock somewhere.