Page 34 of The Last Dance

When I was sure he was out, I slipped from the room, closing the door without a sound. At the landing, I summoned the night guard. “No one in or out,” I said. “No one comes up this stairwell without my order.”

He nodded, wordless.

“Not Lin. Not Yuri. Not even the girl.”

He nodded again.

I went to the command room.

It was on the lower level, behind a coded lock and a door made from steel thick enough to turn a tank shell. The inside was a cathedral of screens, every wall alive with camera feeds, maps, schedules, and the shifting constellations of moving parts that kept the estate secure.

Yuri was already there, two steps ahead, as always.

He met me at the center table. “Perimeter is clean. No vehicles in the area. The shell company that rented the car at the shooting scene is registered to a dummy address in Tallinn. Tech is working it.”

“Have you checked the house?”

He nodded. “Lin swept the staff, no new hires, no deliveries. Sasha has not left the grounds since noon.”

I considered this. “Bring her to the interview room. Quietly.”

He hesitated. “You want me there?”

“No. I’ll handle it.”

He left.

I sat at the table and reviewed the feeds from the shooting. Two shooters, as Yuri had said, with a third man on comms. Their faces were covered, but their walk was all wrong for hired muscle. They were too disciplined, too calm, and definitely not local. I’d know if they were.

I noted that detail, then turned to the other screens: the estate, the bedroom, the empty hallways, the places where a body could disappear if needed. I checked the locks, the fire points, the panic rooms.

Everything was in order.

Yuri returned. “She’s waiting.”

“Good,” I said as I stood and started out of the room. “Wait outside.”

He nodded and took up position by the door once we reached the interview room.

It was a windowless space, furnished only with two chairs and a table. Sasha sat at the far side, legs crossed, hands folded in her lap. She wore the same pearls, but had changed into a pale silk blouse. She looked up at me with the warmth of a grave.

“Is this about dinner plans?” she asked, innocent.

I didn’t sit. “Who did you call today?”

She blinked, then smiled. “You’re angry.”

“Answer.”

She shrugged, elegant. “I called my hairdresser. The club. The florist. I sent a text to my mother. Would you like to see the logs?”

I stared at her, not moving.

She held my gaze, not backing down.

“Was it you?” I said.

She considered. “I suppose that depends on what ‘it’ is.”