Mara did not tell Celeste about the threat. Adrian did not argue, which worried her more than resistance would have.
Instead, they drove to Poppy Vale’s last known address, a public housing block above a laundromat that smelled of detergent, rain, and old heat. Mara had grown up in a building like it before scholarships and fury lifted her elsewhere. Adrian, she suspected, had not. Yet he did not perform sympathy. He simply held the door when an elderly woman struggled with a basket.
Poppy’s flat was empty except for a child’s dinosaur cup in the sink and a cracked tablet on the counter. Adrian powered it on with gloves while Mara examined the walls. No photos. No calendar. But behind the refrigerator, wedged against the baseboard, she found a folded receipt from a twenty-four-hour laundromat two suburbs over. Written on the back in blue marker were three words:
ASK THE ANGEL.
“Religious?” Adrian asked.
“Or someone with an ego.”
The laundromat was nearly empty when they arrived, machines turning like bored planets. In the back, a mural covered one wall: a winged woman holding a sword over a city. Beneath it, a teenage boy in headphones folded towels with military precision.
Mara showed him Poppy’s photo. “Have you seen her?”
The boy’s face shuttered. “No.”
Adrian set a business card on the counter. “If she’s in danger, we can help.”
The boy laughed once. “People like you help by sending invoices.”
Mara took the card back. “Fair.” She pulled a ten-dollar note from her pocket and bought a box of cheap detergent she did not need. “Then I’m not asking as a lawyer. I’m asking as someone who knows what it means to hide with a kid and no money.”
A long beat.
The boy pointed to the mural. “Angel’s not a person. It’s the old service tunnel behind the dryers. Women use it when men come looking.”
Behind the industrial dryers, a panel opened into a narrow passage. Poppy was there, sitting on a crate with her six-year-old daughter asleep against her lap. Her face tightened when she saw them.
“I already said I didn’t see anything.”
“No,” Mara said softly. “You said you wouldn’t say who you saw.”
Poppy clutched her daughter closer. “If I talk, they take Mia. They know her school. They know my shifts.”
“Who threatened you?” Adrian asked.
Poppy looked at him, then at Mara. “Not him. He was kind.”
Mara’s pulse sharpened. “Who was kind?”
“The man leaving the archive. He had blood on his cuff. He told me to run before security came. Said if I stayed, they’d make me the story.” Her voice shook. “It was Cassian Wren.”
Adrian exhaled. Mara sat very still.
Cassian, the grieving husband, the billionaire client, the man Halcyon & Vale had been hired to protect.
“Can you testify?” Mara asked.
Poppy laughed, but tears spilled over. “Against him? I clean his floors. He owns judges, papers, half the charities in this city.”
Adrian crouched so he was not towering over her. “He doesn’t own the truth.”
Poppy stared at him. “That sounds pretty. Is it useful?”
Before he could answer, the laundromat lights went out.
A van door slammed outside.
Mara grabbed Poppy’s hand. Adrian lifted Mia without waking her, and together they ran into the service tunnel. Behind them, the front glass shattered. Men shouted Poppy’s name.
The tunnel split in two. Mara could hear footsteps closing.
Adrian shoved his car keys into her palm. “Take them. East exit.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll give them something to chase.”
“That is not a plan.”
“It’s a romantic gesture with legal implications.”
Despite everything, Mara almost laughed.
Then he kissed her—not softly, not safely, but like a confession made under oath. It lasted one impossible second.
“Go,” he whispered.
Mara ran with Poppy and the sleeping child toward the dark.
Behind her, Adrian stepped into the noise.
