The next evening, she stood in the warehouse—a converted piano factory in Hackney—as O’Flaherty arrived with a battered leather satchel. He was sweating through his good shirt.
Whitney read it twice, then placed it in the steam from her espresso machine until the ink blurred into a Rorschach of threat. whitney st john cambro
She walked out into the grey English rain, her heels clicking a rhythm of rage. But by the time she reached her car, the rage had cooled into something harder: a plan. The next evening, she stood in the warehouse—a