She was not going to hand these people a single thing they could use against her.
She was going to build a case.
She looked at the pill one more time, and instead of a wound, she saw a beginning — the first exhibit.
She slipped the blister pack back into the jacket exactly where she’d found it, smoothed the fabric, and hung it up.
Let him take it.
Let him go to Lyra’s room while Rhys worked a bridge in the dark.
Let all of them keep believing she was the quiet, useful, penniless woman who never caused any trouble.
That belief was the only cover she needed, and they had spent six years handing it to her.
For the first time in half a year, Odette Ashcombe was not afraid.
She was organized.