The Harris County Institute of Forensic Sciences occupied a nine-story building on Old Spanish Trail. Its blocky lines, rectangular windows, and orange brick practically screamed government agency.
I maneuvered our Honda Element into the parking lot. It used to be our surveillance vehicle, because it blended with traffic, but last year Grandma Frida decided to rebuild it from wheels up. Now the Element sported a new engine, bulletproof windows, B5 armor, and run-flat tires among other fun modifications, which struck a perfect balance between protecting us and letting us get away fast. Unfortunately, even Grandma Frida had her limits, and steering was a bit sluggish. I aimed for a parking spot in the middle row.
“So, what’s with you and Alessandro Sagredo?” Runa asked.
The steering was sluggish, but the brakes worked perfectly. I jerked forward, and my seat belt slammed me back.
“Nothing.”
“Aha.” Runa pulled on her own seat belt. “That’s why we screeched to a stop halfway into the parking space?”
“My foot slipped.” I gently eased forward and brought the Element to a smooth stop.
“So you’re just going to go with ‘nothing’?” Runa asked.
“That’s right.”
“Your sister said you met during your trials.”
Sistercide was not a word, but it would be after today. Well, technically, sororicide was a word, but most people wouldn’t recognize it. When did Runa even have a chance to talk to Arabella?
“Yes,” I said.
“Yes what? Is there a story behind that?”
No. He didn’t follow me on Instagram, and he didn’t take my breath away during the trials. And he definitely didn’t show up under my window trying to convince me to go for a drive.
“We met during the trials, and my sisters haven’t stopped teasing me about it for the last three years. There is absolutely nothing between me and Alessandro Sagredo.”
Strictly speaking, there were 5,561 miles between our warehouse and the Sagredo estate near Venice, Italy. A commercial flight with one connection could get me to Venice in thirteen hours. I could be under Alessandro’s window tomorrow, asking him if he would like to go for a drive.
“You zoned out there for a second,” Runa observed. “Are you imagining there being nothing between you and Alessandro?”
She was trying to distract herself from the horror of never seeing her mother and sister again, but I had to put a stop to it, or I would never get out of the car.
I used my logical, reasonable voice. “Runa, do you see Alessandro in this car? No. He isn’t in this parking lot or in that building either, so he’s a non-issue. Let’s go.”
We started across the parking lot. Cold wind buffeted us.
Runa hugged her arms to herself. She wore a light windbreaker over a green sweater dress. “I should get a coat like yours. Is that Burberry?”
“Yes. I got it on sale last year at half off.”
“Lucky.”
I was wearing a beige mid-length trench coat over a grey sweater and blue jeans tucked into soft boots. The coat had a double-breasted front closure with a row of black buttons on each side. I had left it open. It flattered my figure and looked stylish and expensive enough to belong to a Prime, but most importantly, it hid my knife resting in a special sheath sewn into the lining on the left side.
There were only a handful of ways to conceal a blade long enough to be effective in a fight. You could wear it on your thigh under a loose skirt, which would have you pawing at your skirt to draw it and was impractical in cold weather. You could wear it in a shoulder sheath, but if you took the outer garment off, it was no longer concealed. Hiding it in the coat lining was the best option. Even if I took the coat off out of politeness or necessity, I could carry it so I could draw in an instant. It was highly unlikely that the Forensic Institute would require me to check my coat.
We entered the lobby. The designers of the institute must have been great fans of modern industry, and monochromatic colors. The floor gleamed with white tile, the walls highlighted with pale grey; the ceiling featured stainless-steel beams with long fluorescent lights, and the counters practically glowed with pristine white. Even the visitor furniture, upholstered soft chairs, were a greyish off-white. The place begged for a plant or a Gustav Klimt print.
I walked up to the receptionist behind the counter. I had checked the case status on the institute’s website. The case was listed as