Page 99 of Oath
“Got it.” The sound of a door closing carried.
He made the switch to lapel cam before he was out of the stairwell. The video feed cut, and the new one took a moment. It came back in, low resolution and a little snowy, but definitely visible.
Grace was leaving the elevator along with a few others. She scanned the different signs, then headed for the one for Judge Wharnack’s courtroom.
Wharnack. That name sounded like he should be a cartoon character. I took another swallow of coffee.
“Deep breaths, Dollface,” Bones said, his voice steady and calm. “You’re panting. Pause. Take a breath. This isyourop. You have the control.”
A few steps from Wharnack’s courtroom, she stopped and put a hand against her abdomen. She took a controlled breath. Another. Then another. The rigid line of her shoulders eased and her expression shifted to neutral.
She’d buried all of her usual fire under layers of plausible deniability and an airtight demeanor. “Ready,” she murmured the word, it was barely audible. Then she was moving. As she opened the door, a bailiff was right there at the door and he glanced from her to Voodoo then motioned for them to take a seat.
Grace moved toward the third row back from the front. Voodoo took the last row and he had a good angle for her.
A better angle for Sinclair.
There was a hum of white noise, and two attorneys were at the front of the court talking to the judge. No clients visible, maybe the clients didn’t have to be here?
We still didn’t have a bead on Mendoza, so we’d work on that.
The white noise vanished, then the judge motioned the attorneys to step back. Sinclair was easily recognizable, even without his standard firm portrait.
Hyper-slick. Corporate veneer. A guy who used his clients like leverage, his assistants like furniture, and everyone else? Collateral.
I wish we had some zoom capability. Sinclair looked pleased with himself, for all of three seconds. He blanched when he caught sight of Grace. No way to mistake how all the color drained from his face and howstaredat her like he’d seen a ghost.
I cracked my knuckles.
Mark Sinclair was guilty as fuck.
Chapter
Twenty-Nine
GRACE
Ifelt it before I saw him.
That shift in the air—an almost imperceptible pressure drop, like the room had collectively inhaled and then forgot how to breathe. My heels struck the courtroom floor with crisp, calculated taps, the rhythm of someone in control. I counted them. Three steps in. One heartbeat. Two.
And then there he was.
Mark Sinclair.
He looked exactly like his picture, almost insultingly so. Smooth lines, slicked-back hair, smug jawline, and a designer suit so expensive it practically had an ego of its own. But that smugness cracked the instant our eyes met.
I didn’t smile.
I didn’t blink.
I didn’t breathe.
And neither did he.
For a second—maybe less—he just stared. No greeting, no recognition twitch, no fake professionalism. Just raw, nakedfear. The kind you try to hide behind a poker face, but it leaks out through your eyes anyway.
I’d worn my sister’s favorite lipstick. Not mine. She liked tones that bled confidence. I’d also worn her scent—a sharp blend of citrus and heat. It burned in the back of my throat every time I breathed in, but I needed the armor.
