Page 106 of Oath
A beat of silence as Bones twisted to look back at me. All I did was raise my eyebrows. I wanted the man to show up. I was ready to ask him all the questions.
“Let him. We’ll take care of him once he’s here.” Bones glanced ahead once more.
I blew out a long breath, both relieved and exhilarated. Yet, the tension inside of me coiled inexorably tighter. We were close. But how close? As close as it felt, it also felt like a million miles still separated us.
The steel gray skies had darkened in the near hour long drive it had taken us in traffic to get from Alexandria to McLean. When Voodoo held out a hand, I slid mine into his and let him tug me from my seat to the one next to him. We were almost there.
“You’re cold,” he said, trying to warm my hand with his.
“Not really feeling it at the moment,” I admitted.
“Two minutes,” AB warned. The traffic sounds had grown considerably quieter after leaving the highway. From what I could see out the front, we were entering the very affluent area Sinclair called home.
We were almost there.
The van eased to a smooth, quiet stop on the edge of the circular drive—close enough to be expected, far enough to seem like we weren’t desperate to make a scene. The house loomed in front of me, three stories of stone and old money arrogance, with a steep gabled roof, black iron fixtures, and enough carefully trimmed hedges to make Versailles jealous.
Just another Thursday in McLean.
I stepped out of the driver’s seat, tugging the strap of my bag higher on my shoulder. From the outside, we looked like a very tidy scene: a clean, newer-model van that could belong to a realtor, a consultant, or—if you were a little sleep-deprived and had the wrong glasses prescription—a well-dressed soccer mom. Very subtle. Very boring.
Perfect.
I didn’t glance at the trees. Didn’t check my watch. Voodoo and Bones had gotten out a quarter mile back, disappearing into the thicket that surrounded the estate like it had something to hide. I knew they were on foot, getting into position to sweep the grounds once I opened the door.
“Comms check,” Bones murmured.
“Loud and clear,” I whispered, and clicked the clasp on my bag.
The walk to the door was measured and confident—Amorette Black, no nonsense, no nerves. By the time I reached the oversized double doors, I’d gone still inside, like someone had flipped a switch and all the noise in my head had gone dark.
I knocked once, firm but polite. The sound echoed.
Thirty seconds passed.
Then the door opened.
The woman who answered was in her mid-fifties, maybe older, wearing a muted floral blouse with dark slacks. She looked startled to see me—properly startled, like I’d just materialized on her front step instead of walked up to it. Her mouth opened, and she said something in rapid-fire Spanish.
"¿Pero qué haces aquí tú solita? No me dijo que venía nadie?—"
Then her expression shifted, and she corrected herself quickly, her words slipping into English like a practiced code-switch. “Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot you don’t speak Spanish.”
I tilted my head, just a fraction, offering the exact kind of self-effacing smile Amorette might’ve used when someone spilled wine on her heels.
“No worries,” I said lightly. “I’m so sorry to bother you this afternoon. I was just with Mark in court down in Alexandria, and of course he forgot some files. Then he had to go straight to the Whitcomb and asked me to stop by here and grab a few things.”
The woman’s shoulders relaxed with that specific weariness I recognized in service workers who’d done this dance a thousand times.
“Of course he did,” she muttered, then caught herself again. “No, I mean—yes, come in, of course. I remember you from before, you’ve been here, yes?”
I nodded like it was the most natural thing in the world. “A couple of times, yes. I’m just here for the files. He said they’d probably be in the study, or maybe the upstairs office?”
She made a soft sound of sympathy and stepped aside. The door clicked shut behind me as I crossed the threshold and took in the house.
Inside, it was warm—too warm. The kind of curated comfort that tried a little too hard to be welcoming. The walls were all creamy whites and soft lighting, with tasteful art, thick rugs, and furniture that had never been sat on by anything less than a well-dressed donor or a discreet mistress.
“We had a cleaning team through yesterday,” the housekeeper said as she led me forward. “Everything should be in place, but if anything is out of order, I apologize. Mr. Sinclair can be… unpredictable.”
