Saturday, 12:00 PM. The Georgetown Townhouse.
Cassandra Locke looked like a woman who had spent the night staring into the abyss.
When Darius escorted the tech billionaire into the study, Locke's usual cold Silicon Valley composure was completely gone. She wore the same oversized grey sweater from the night before, but it was wrinkled, and dark circles bruised the pale skin under her eyes. She was twitchy, her gaze darting around the room, searching for the lead-lined box.
I sat behind the mahogany desk, nursing a cup of black coffee. Nia stood to my right, her arms crossed, glaring at the woman whose ICE protocol had nearly fried her brain.
"Sit down, Cassandra," I said, gesturing to one of the leather guest chairs.
Locke practically collapsed into the chair. She looked at me, her physiological profile—still visible through the lingering effects of the [Soul Reader]—screaming with a volatile mix of terror and obsessive, religious awe.
