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I stopped.

Kettlewell Cold Bay.

I knew that name. It sat in a filing I’d waved off months ago, a coastal address a few hours up from Millfield. Kettlewell was Robin’s town. Robin’s town, where Robin worked security.

“He played me,” I said. I had JW Security back up on the screen in seconds.

“You’re welcome,” Handful said as he walked out the door.

I’d been looking for Wren. I should have been looking at what they had to maintain. A protection outfit carries insurance. Insurance means administrators, portals and records.

JW’s public filings gave me the benefits administrator. The administrator’s portal took longer.

I got in near dawn. Wren had been added to JW’s health plan eleven months ago. One dependent sat beneath her name, born four months ago.

Found them.

Then I looked back at the employer name on the record.

JW Security.

Two letters. I’d run them a year ago the way I run everything—every partner, every registered agent, every wife and mother and dead uncle attached to those five men. Robin Kerrisk. Neil Moffett. Nick Ogle. Dion Bailey. Simon Gibson. Not a J or a W among them.

Then I remembered what my mother used to call the little brown birds on our fence.

Jenny Wrens.

Wren. Songbird. Jenny Wren.

Songbird was mine. The name I only ever used when it was just us and she’d gone shy on me. I’d never said it in front of another living person.

JW. Jenny Wren. Robin had put her name on the company, and I’d looked right past it.

I knew where she was now. Where they were. I was already out of the chair.

Chapter 5

❧

— Wren —

Robin’s house was too big for one man. He’d bought it cheap eleven years ago, when the roof had caved in over two rooms, then spent four winters fixing it. Nick had a room. Dion stayed a couple of nights a week when he couldn’t face the drive back up the hill. The spare room was known as the sick bay. The reason depended on who you asked.

And then there was mine, with a nursery next door for Sparrow when she was older. For now, she slept in a travel crib beside my bed.

This morning, Sparrow woke me at ten past five, twenty minutes later than she’d managed all week. By six, I had her against my shoulder and carried her downstairs.

The kitchen light was already on. Nick was at the counter in yesterday’s shirt, eating cereal standing up. Dion was at the table, frowning at a report on his laptop.

“There she is,” Dion said, and shut the laptop, and put his arms out. “Give.”

“She’s not even fed.”

Dion sighed and lowered his arms. “Fine. I can wait.”

He put the kettle on. I settled into the old chair beside the stove and breastfed Sparrow while Nick and Dion carried on arguing over my head. None of us thought anything of it. These were the men who’d guarded me when I was pole dancing my way through college. They’d all seen me naked. A breast out to feed my daughter didn’t shock them.

When Sparrow was finished, Dion put my coffee on the table and held out both hands.