going into a high-pressure situation on no sleep.”
“But I need to prep, Abe. I’ve never gone undercover like this for Codex before.” My anxiety was duking it out for dominance over my exhaustion. “Don’t I need—”
“You need sleep,” Sam said. “I’ll work with Delilah for a couple of hours and then I’ll pick you up at your house in the morning. We can reconvene and head to the hotel in the morning to register.”
The thought of my giant warm bed and a cup of tea felt so fucking amazing I almost fainted again out of sheer need. “Maybe you’re right.”
“They’re right,” Delilah murmured next to me. “I wouldn’t let these guys send you home if they were wrong.” She draped my jacket over me and squeezed my shoulders.
“Hey, Frey?” We all turned to Henry, looking every bit the dapper librarian, surrounded by open books and scribbled notes. “I’m pretty damn sure you’re right about that code.”
“House?” I asked. “Empty house? Thirteenth house?”
“Empty house,” he said confidently. “It’s a Sherlock Holmes reference.”
Sam turned to openly gawk at me.
“Sherlock Holmes fakes his own death in the story The Final Problem. In the next story, Sherlock re-appears to Dr. Watson. Alive and very well, much to Watson’s surprise. They’re investigating the case of a colonial governor killed by a gunshot to the temple. The mystery being the man was in a room that locked from the inside, and the only escape would have been through a window with a twenty-foot drop. And not a single person heard the sound of a shot.”
Ever the FBI agent, Sam asked, “How did the murderer get away with it?”
“If I remember correctly, it was a sniper with an air rifle. When Sherlock Holmes reveals himself to John Watson, he’s disguised as an elderly bookseller.” Henry paused, adjusted his glasses. “The story was called The Adventure of The Empty House.”
10
Freya
It was 6:59 a.m., and Sam’s boring car was pulling in front of my rowhouse.
I peered through the pink curtains in my bedroom, watching him step out of the driver’s side and scan the street—presumably for criminals. His suit today was a dark blue. As usual, his hair was perfect, face clean-shaven.
I didn’t know what Julian King looked like in real life, but I figured it was a safe bet that Sam Byrne would give him a run for his money in the looks department.
I glanced at my own reflection in my floor-length mirror. The night of uninterrupted sleep had eradicated the haze in my brain. But the sight of Sam—and the knowledge of what we were about to do—lit a fire beneath my nerves, sending them cartwheeling. I pressed a hand to my stomach to quell the twitchiness.
My cat, Minerva, meowed from the doorway.
“How do I look?” I asked her, striking a dramatic pose. For the first time in my entire life, I was wearing a tight sweater—black—instead of my usual extra-large sweater. Black pants, red high-heels I’d found in the back of my closet. Lipstick to match and a set of dusty (fake) pearls I’d once worn on Halloween when I’d gone dressed as Vogue-era Madonna. Even my trademark bun was neat and tidy.
To the mirror, I said, “You are Birdie Barnes. Rare bookseller. Rock star among thieves.”
But when I pressed a stray strand of hair back into position, my fingers were trembling.
Sam’s sharp knock sent Minerva fleeing down the stairs, and I was quick to follow her. When I opened the door, Sam stared at me quizzically. “You look different.”
“You look the same,” I said. I pulled him into my hallway and closed the door. His imposing shape dominated the narrow space, and his jaw worked, expression a mystery, as he examined the framed art on the wall. I’d never even seen inside his dorm room—not at Princeton. Certainly not at Quantico. Seeing him now, in my actual home, made me feel naked.
“Do you want, um…a cup of tea?” I asked, backing away from his broad shoulders.
He nodded, casually looking around as I led him through my tiny sitting room with the window seat—perfect for rainy-day reading—and into my kitchen. He pulled out a kitchen stool. Minerva jumped onto the counter and tried to climb his shoulders. As I put the kettle on, I chanced a glance when Sam wasn’t looking—it was such an oddly domestic moment, I wanted to pinch myself.
“Who’s this?” he asked.
“Minerva,” I said. “A stray the animal rescue found living behind Bauman’s Rare Books in Old City. She looked feral when I