Gertrude Payne stood on the cliffside of the Payne estate. The moon reflected off the churning waters of the Atlantic. She’d let her gray hair loose and closed her eyes. The wind felt good on her face. The crashing waves soothed her. She could still hear Stephano approaching, but she kept her eyes closed for another ten seconds.
When she opened them, she said, “You didn’t get him.”
“Ross Sumner failed us.”
“And that guard, the one who told you about the sister-in-law’s visit.”
“He failed too.”
She turned away from the ocean. Stephano was a beefy man with jet-black hair cut into Prince Valiant bangs, making him resemble an aging rocker who was trying a little too hard to hang on to his youth. Stephano’s suit was custom-made but still fit his square frame like a cardboard box.
“I don’t understand,” Gertrude said. “How could he have escaped?”
“Does it matter?”
“Perhaps not.”
“It’s not as though he’s a threat.”
She smiled.
“What? You think he is?”
She knew the odds of David Burroughs causing any lasting damage were miniscule, but you don’t reach what her husband used to nauseatingly call the Payne Pinnacle without adding the other P:
Paranoia.
But she also knew the way the world worked. You simply never know. You believe you are safe. You are certain that you considered every angle, thought about every possibility. But you didn’t. Not ever. The world doesn’t work that way.
No one gets it right all the time.
“Mrs. Payne?”
“We need to be prepared, Stephano.”