The jet landed in Los Angeles and Helena Voss didn't take her usual car service. She grabbed a town car from the airport queue, anonymous, nothing that connected to Vanguard Records. In the back seat, she caught herself looking at the driver — a young man with headphones, probably listening to something from her competitor's catalog. She wanted to ask what. Instead she stared out the window and tried to remember the last time she'd felt this exposed.
Thirty years of building walls. Michael had tested them plenty, poked at the foundation, made his presence known. But he'd never made her feel like this — like the walls had glass in them and someone was looking back.
Her phone buzzed. Paolo, in the group thread they'd agreed not to use: "Back in Philly. Nobody followed."
Helena didn't respond. She'd delete the thread tonight. Burner phones next time, or nothing at all.
