Page 17 of Riggs
“My energy drink from an hour ago.” She exhales. The shaking drops to a tremor. She is here again. So am I.
“We’re going to find who touched your bag,” I say.
She nods, quick, like a swallow. “I hate him.”
“Good,” I say. “Hate makes clean lines. Fear makes static.”
Rae is back in my ear. “I have a clip. Sponsor rep ‘Caleb’ steps into green room at 5:07 while you were adjusting a cam, Riggs. He pretends to answer a call, sets his folder on the vanity, and then picks it up again. Time in room: eighteen seconds. Vanessa’s bag is on the chair. He could have dropped it one-handed. Venue coordinator enters five minutes later, stays ten seconds, straightens a curtain, leaves. The PA passes the opening twice but never crosses the threshold.”
“Clip to Turner,” I say. The FBI has an agent with a sense of humor and a hate for men like this. “And lock down the exterior doors. We’ll leave via catering.”
Vanessa stands. Her hands aren’t shaking now. Her mouth is a thin, dangerous line. “What does it mean, ‘I’m getting closer’?”
“That he wants you to believe he can be anywhere,” I say. “He can’t. He has to use holes. We’ll close them.”
“Why me?” It’s not the brand question. It’s the human one.
“Because you’re loud,” I say simply. “Because you figured out how to turn attention into something soft for people who don’t get a lot of it. That pisses off small men who need the world to be about them.” I step closer, lower my voice. “And because you’re brave and that reads even when the sound is off. He wants to make you smaller. I won’t let him.”
She huffs a breath that is not a laugh, not a sob. “Okay,” she says. “Let’s shut the doors.”
We move. I hand the evidence to hotel security with a chain-of-custody sheet and a stare that gets me everything I want. We exit through catering, a narrow corridor with bad art and good alarms. Brice tries to argue and then doesn’t because I say his name the way people hear when they’re an inch from a line they can’t see.
In the elevator, I text Dean the short version.
Note in tote. ‘I’m getting closer.’ Likely placed by sponsor rep Caleb. Rae has clip. Pushing to Turner at the FBI.
His reply is immediate.
Use the cover. Tighten the circle. Put Caleb on ice.
“You did good,” I say, and mean it.
“I almost threw up,” she admits.
“That can be ‘good’ in a lot of rooms,” I say, and get the ghost of a smile.
There’s complete silence for a beat, then she says, “I hate that he was so close to me,” she says quietly, like the thought is a cold that got under her coat.
“He was close to your bag,” I correct. “He wasn’t close to you.” I look at her until she looks back. “That’s the line. That’s the one I paint every time we move you. He’s going to learn to hate that line.”
She watches me for a second. “Riggs?”
“Yeah.”
“Thank you.”
I nod, and I watch as she relaxes slightly.
Back in the room, I put her behind the door, wedge it, set the alarms, move a chair under the knob the way old men who survived real things taught me. I text Rae to watch the hallway cam and Jaxson to scrape Caleb’s phone. I send Hayes a photo of the card; he texts back
Glue brand is cheap craft. Printer’s low on magenta. Local. I can smell it.
He’s joking.
Vanessa stands by the window, looking at the rain making its own map on the glass. I go to her, put my hand on her back, don’t move it when she leans into it.
“I’m getting closer,” she says, quoting the note with contempt. “So are we.”
